


Bad Predacon

by TheBuggu



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Body Modification, Essentially they're masturbating but not at the same time??, M/M, Relationships aren't tagged to keep them a surprise? ;D, Same for characters, Sentient sex toys, Some forced body surgeries, Some referenced rape/noncon, Spikes, Too tired to think of more tags, dark things, valves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 33,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4095331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBuggu/pseuds/TheBuggu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.<br/>Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Minimus Ambus and the Hot Rod

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive the typos. I'm so tired while editing them, so chances are I'll miss something. ;U

The _Hot Rod_ is what Bad Predacon called it on their catalog.

Minimus sat at his desk, crouched over its surface. He stared at the metal top with a dead pan. His once neatly organized files had been scattered all over it, some had fallen to the floor around his chair. At the center of his messy desk was the engraved box that had been delivered earlier that morning. The very same box and its contents that he splurged three months worth of his salary on. Currently, it was shaking wildly and muffled protests seeped out.

He rubbed the back of his neck and sank down, resting his cheek on one arm.

Another scream came from the box.

Minimus shuffled in his seat and stared at it again, lips pulling into a long line. He studied the beautifully adorned box, nearly as long as the distance from his the tips of his digits to his wrist, and groaned. This was a perfect depiction of what a lie was.

Heading dropping back in defeat, Minimus grabbed the box with a pout; like it was acidic to the touch. He begrudgingly jerked it forward and glared at it. He had been confused as to why the box came with a magnetic lock installed. But as he flicked it open and tried to peak inside, the bright red movement clarified his confusion.

"Hey!" the tiny voice squeaked.

Minimus' expression twisted into embarrassment and he quickly tried to reseal it. But the owner of the angry voice yelled more obscenities and miniature hands clawed their way for freedom.

"There's been a mistake!" Minimus winced and tried to gently push the little mech back inside. When a head popped out of the box and pushed between his fingers, his optics darted back and forth—feeling partly guilty and partly flustered.

"Ugh. There always is!"

The tiny mech was nimble and easily slipped under his hands.

"W-wait!" Minimus tried to snatch him up in a fist, but when the angry tiny mech vibrated with enough force to shake his hand as well, he dropped him with a horrified expression.

He crossed hims arms, stomped his feet against the desk, and glared up at Minimus. "If you think you can return me, you're mistaken. They won't take back a _used_ toy."

Minimus slapped his face and dragged his servos down against them. "I didn't know," he began in a deep grumble, "that you...you were this?" he fumbled, gesturing to the 'Hot Rod'.

The tiny mech wore a smirk. "That's what you get for not double checking the fine print." He leaned back against the box, flaring his faux wings out victoriously. "Boy, you must've been needing a nice overload, huh? How many times was it? Five?"

Minimus clenched his hands into quivering fists and hid his face against them.

"Aww, don't feel too bad, big guy. You gave me plenty of fuel."

He did not need to hear that.

"Wanna go again? Might as well put your credits to good use."

Minimus shook his head back and forth.

This felt just weird...and wrong. Were there Cybertronians who actually ordered these mechs and used them like this?

"Alright. I can tell you're having the whole 'this is wrong and immoral' crisis," the small mech stated and lifted his servos in an air quote gesture. "We aren't programmed to be slaves or anything. I don't even need regular energon, so you don't have to spend extra credits. It's purely beneficial for both of us."

Minimus lifted his head when he heard the sound of shifting gears.

Laying on its side, the same red and yellow color was now in the form of a false spike.

"Don't worry about introductions for now," the same voice pipped up. "But you can call me _hungry_ if you don't use me again soon. C'mon...I'm sure you could use some stress relief," he purred. "And your valve felt so nice. I think I hear it calling for me."

Minimus' cheeks heated up. He quickly picked up the false spike, which began to vibrate madly, and dropped it back inside the box.

"Hey! Wai--"

His screams were cut prematurely as he closed the lid again.

Minimus had to be the victim of some kind of cosmic prank. 


	2. Ratchet and the Deadlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut happens this time. ;p

It was a long shift.

Ratchet was tired from dealing with so many whiny patients. He was nearly at the breaking point of slamming head against desk when the last and unexpected one entered his office; he was an oddly short Point One Percenter named Minimus Ambus. The mech wasn't even hurt. He clutched a decorated box that Ratchet was all too well familiar with, as if ashamed of displaying it.

Minimus had rambled on and on about how he bought a 'Hot Rod' toy from Bad Predacon and was stuck with an unexpected charge—waving one arm in panic when he explained that his _purchase_ couldn't even digest regular energon and that he was going to be responsible for a sentient being starving.

Ratchet nearly broke down with laughter then and there.

He chuckled and had waved the mech off. His only advice to him being, "Get to know your _Hot Rod_ very intimately." and handed a pamphlet all about the special toys from Bad Predacon.

Ratchet never saw a mech's face turn bright red so quickly. He left the office after thanking Ratchet for his time.

It wasn't the first time new customers made mistakes or were surprised by their Bad Predacon purchase.

He sent a message to First Aid asking to keep his shift covered for a few hours. Barely minutes passed before a short and simple _'Alright!'_ was sent back. First Aid was a smart and competent assistant. He was almost ready to inherit the position as the clinic's main doctor; Ratchet couldn't pick a more worthy successor.

He sent an internal command to his door, a lock that could only be overridden by higher level personnel.

Ratchet pulled open his desk's drawer. Inside was solely a dark blue case gilded with etched purple lines—however, unlike the box that Minimus had brought, the lid was kept beside it and the magnetic lock had been removed by Ratchet personally. Inside the box was foam insert padded with a silky material. The false spike resting inside was a mostly milky white and red, with black stripes running all along its sides and ridges.

Many people were unaware that Bad Predacon started out as a small time company centuries ago; even fewer were aware that Ratchet had purchased one of the earliest models from them when he was still taking medical classes.

His version was named the Deadlock. It wasn't as large as a typical model, but the ridges made up for it. They flared out during use and caught snug with its curved edges.

"Nap time's over," Ratchet murmured and kissed against the spike's ridge.

A quick slather of lubricant along it was all Ratchet needed before his valve cover parted and he aligned the tip of the spike in. Ratchet spread his thighs far apart and angled the head in, carefully maneuvering it forward. He hissed and whimpered as the spike was pushed past the folds of his valve.

Ratchet licked his lips. He could feel the toy growing warmer and warmer.

Pushing. Pushing. Just a little more—there! The spike flickered to life and pulsed. The vibrations were lazy and minuscule at first, but it was more than enough to have Ratchet arch back in his chair and moan eagerly.

_::Mmmm. How naughty.::_ A sultry voice spoke into Ratchet's comm. link. His private frequency. _::What would all the good doctors and nurses think if they knew their head doctor disregarded procedures so easily?::_

Ratchet dug his fingers against his armrest. "Puh-lease. I c-could be fragged by Unicron himself and still perform a transplant without a single error."

_::Unicron, huh? Well, he's not here. But_ I _am.::_

The vibrations increased ten fold.

"Ahhhh! Nghhh." He lifted a servo to his mouth to stifle a moan. "D-Drift..."

He tried to reach for the spike's base, wanting to thrust it in and out of himself, but he arched up in instinct when he tried to slide the toy out. The ridges were already flared out and pressing against his nodes.

"Drift. I neeeeeeeed...I n-need..." Ratchet choked in his begging.

_::I know exactly what you need.::_ A purr.

The vibrations grew even stronger. Ratchet could feel them sneaking through his entire frame. He nibbled on a finger and suckled against it, imagining with vivid images that it wasn't his own; that he was embraced tenderly as he was being fragged.

The first overload hit him hard. He sank down against his chair with wobbling knees.

_::That'd be one_ , _::_ the voice counted with a deep chuckle. _::You taste so wonderful.::_

Ratchet came undone again instantly.

He grinded his aft back and forth on his seat for more stimulation. Along with the constant, amazing assault of vibrations, he overloaded again in mere minutes.

The vibrator came to a halt. Ratchet could feel the ridges flattening back. Fluids suddenly pooled out from his slicked valve, along with the false spike. Ratchet carefully picked it up, wrapped it in a satin cleaning cloth, and placed it flat on his desk. He leaned back on his chair, disregarding the warm and moist mess under him, and sighed in content.

He smiled when the bundle wiggled, indicating movement. He could hear gears converting. In seconds, Drift crawled out of the cloth and propped himself against it. He stretched out and crossed his legs, gazing up at Ratchet with a relaxed demeanor. "That was interesting way to wake up from stasis."

"Don't you start," Ratchet chided with a smirk. "I remember that you did the exact same when I first got you. You still never told me how you managed to unlock my interface array. While I was _sleeping_ ," he said accusingly, but still smiled. Fingers lowered down to Drift and gently massaged his helm's pointed crests.

"Ah, ah. Trade secret," Drift replied with a wink. "Besides, if I told you, you'd make sure I could never do it again.”

"I...didn't say that," Ratchet mumbled. He laid his head down against his desk and dragged Drift closer. Soft, chaste kisses dabbed against the small mech's frame.

Drift sighed in content.

At this rate, Ratchet was tempted to take the rest of the night off.


	3. Tailgate and the Primal Vanguard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut, just cuteness this time.

Tailgate stepped into his suite, clutching his parting gift from the Cybertronian Medical Division with one arm. Years of therapy from treating his cybercrosis left his body stressed and overburdened, but the medical staff decided that Tailgate was at a progressive point. Whatever that meant.

The chief of medicine explained that an anonymous benefactor paid for Tailgate to receive a personal companion from a company named Bad Predacon. He never heard of them before, but Tailgate decided that having someone to talk to would be nice. The nurses and doctors were kind and friendly, but loneliness lingered over Tailgate during his stay in the hospital.

He made his way to the small desk beside the entrance and placed the case on the flat surface. He lowered the carefully packed energon container as well, though it was more rectangular and thinner than a typical cube. The representative from Bad Predacon explained that all his questions would be answered by the pamphlet included with his gift.

Tailgate turned the box around and stared at it with new found wonder. The case itself was an old and dull metallic purple with ebony Primal Vernacular characters embossed on all four sides.

"Looks too pretty to open," Tailgate murmured to himself and hesitantly picked at the latch. Whatever it was, it was clearly older and he certainly didn't want to break it. But...to not open it either would be rude, right?

He sighed and clicked the latch free.

There was a small datapad that instantly came into view. The inside of the case had a foam insert, cushioning. Tailgate's visor flickered in curiosity as he lifted the pad and examined it more closely.

_' **Th** **e Primal Vanguard.** _

_Due to the age of this model, it is suggested to allow feeding before use. Place in cube provided by Bad Predacon and wait approximately half a groon for nutrients to be absorbed._

_We thank you for being a loyal customer!'_

Tailgate tilted his helm and reread the lines of text, just to make sure he saw correctly.

He scrolled down the datapad and perked up when he noticed an invoice also included on it. He gasped and dropped the pad against his desk when he saw the lengthy amount written. He could never afford _that_ much on his income as a waste disposal unit. Anxiety flared in his gut. Who would spend that much on him?!

"Tailgate. No panic on," he hissed to himself. When he got anxious, his symptoms flared. He didn't want a reason to have to go back to the hospital. His cybercrosis had just reached the point of being well maintained.

When he caught sight of the case's contents, Tailgate squeaked in embarrassment. It was a dark purple and white colored false spike; an impressive one that was bulky and had a ridged underside with a few faux spines sticking up at its tip. But, a false spike nonetheless.

"I-is this a joke?" Tailgate sputtered. Is...this what a personal companion was considered these days? Someone actually paid credits and bought it for Tailgate. He didn't know whether to feel embarrassed or humiliated.

He lifted the toy out of the customized box and examined it closely. It didn't seem...worth that much or really special. Maybe it was a new trend—he didn't have much time for trends while he staying in the hospital.

Sighing in disappoint, Tailgate glanced down to the energon cube and placed the false spike in the liquid with a shrug. He would see what the fuss was about after a short nap.

Tailgate pushed back and trotted to his couch. After sitting down on it and leaning against the armrest, he glanced around. He missed living here even if it was barely decorated and simple in appearance.

He wasn't sure how long he passed out for, but Tailgate jumped up, onlined his optics and glanced around after a sudden clatter disturbed him.

"H-huh?"

He stood up and looked around, making a soft mumble and turned his head back and forth. The energon cube had been spilled and was laying on the ground. He immediately rushed to clean it up.

"Aww, geeze! How did that happen?" Tailgate whined as he scrambled for a wiping cloth. Normally he always had one on him, but his time staying in the hospital left his cleaning skills rusty.

A few seconds passed. Tailgate paused mid-swipe, still partially kneeling over, when realization smacked him. The false spike was missing. He jerked up and eyed the table with his visor flaring up in panic. The cube had fallen to the floor, but the toy had not. And it wasn't on his desk either. It had barely been a whole day. How on Cybertron could he already have lost his gift?

"Where is it?" Tailgate whimpered and kneaded his servos. His intakes were beginning to hitch violently.

What if the representative asked to see it later? How could he explain that it simply vanished?

The most beautiful singing caught his attention moments later. It was soft and distant, but it was enough to make Tailgate stop in his tracks. He followed the sound until his gaze landed on his window sill. The tiniest Cybertronian Tailgate had ever seen was standing on it, staring out through the window. His arms were crossed and his back was turned.

Tailgate lifted his servos to his faceplate, holding back his amazed gasp, and he tiptoed closer.

For several minutes, he stood in awe and listened as the little mech sang.

Finally, he finished and silence rang through the air.

Tailgate clapped. "Old Cybertronian," he cooed in amazement.

The tiny mech jerked around and stared at Tailgate with an intense gaze. Tailgate stared back, optics darting back and forth over the strange frame.

"Um. Wait," Tailgate spoke up again and tapped his chin. "Where'd you come from, little guy?"

A snort came from the mech. He lifted a tiny claw and pointed at the box from Bad Predacon.

Tailgate froze. And then he glanced from the small Cybertronian, to the box, and back. Now that he mentioned it, he had the same colors as the false spike. Tailgate made an embarrassed squeak. "Oh my." He could feel his anxiety eating at his spark again.

"Calm down," the mech eventually spoke.

Tailgate fidgeted with embarrassment. "Y-you must think I'm awful. I-I had no idea about you though. Honest! The h-hospital gave you t-to me." That...came out wrong.

Something flickered in the mech's optics before he snorted in amusement. "I am here when you require my service," he said coolly and turned back to stare out the window.

Tailgate whimpered. "You...aren't angry at me?"

"If I was unhappy about my circumstances, I would not be here."

It was the only response Tailgate received.

"I am familiar with your condition. You should refuel now."

"O-oh. Yeah. I guess I should," Tailgate giggled nervously. He made his way to his energon storage, which had been maintained by the hospital staff for him, and cubed a small portion for him to drink. When he glanced back to the window, cube in hand, he made a surprised sound. The tiny mech moved. And he was now standing on Tailgate's desk by the Bad Predacon case.

"You're a quick guy," he said with a smiling tone. "And I just realized I never gave you my name yet! It's Tailgate!"

Arms still crossed, the mech nodded. "I know." He moved one hand and gestured to the font etched on the case, pointing to each character. "Cy-clo-nus. That is what my name would be in New Cybertronian."

Tailgate nodded. "Nice to meet you then, Cyclonus!"

He never realized how much his missed having someone to talk to.

Even if his new company had an alt. mode of a interface toy, Tailgate felt like he was the most interesting person in the world.


	4. Fort Max and the Therapist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING: This chapter does contain a rape/torture reference** So, please just skip this chapter if it makes you uncomfortable!

Fortress Maximus hated it.

He hated himself more.

With a loud grunt, he pulled the orange rod out of his valve and hissed. His chest rose and sank repeatedly with his exhausted pants. He leaned back against his berth and moved the toy to the empty space beside him. He stared down the fluid covered toy and scowled.

Bad Predacon listed the model name as the _Therapist_. It was a flashy and bright orange and adorned with special nodes that sent electrical tingles. Maximus almost wanted to laugh. No matter how many times he'd used vibrating rod since ordering it, it hadn't help. His valve was just as damaged and scarred. He couldn't even use a false spike.

He could still hear the cackles; see those evil stares.

He punched his wall and swallowed down his fear.

He shut his optics tightly and quickly turned onto his side when he heard the toy activate and revert its mode.

"Maximus?" the soft and kind voice called for him.

"I can't, Rung," he snapped and winced away. "Don't look at me, please."

He heard the tiniest of footsteps on his berth. Small hands touched the back of his helm.

"I can't ignore you," the voice spoke up and rubbed him soothingly.

Fort Max felt his lips quiver. He hid his optics against the backside of his forearm. "How do you not hate me? Don't you understand I'm only using you?!" he snapped. His frame erupted in a violent tremor.

"You don't mean that," the voice never faltered and the tiny hands continued to move in circular motions.

"Yes, I do," he growled. "Go away."

Instead of leaving, hands grabbed onto his armor. He knew the tiny mech was climbing on him. And Maximus knew that he would stop after reaching his helm crest and hoisting himself over.

"Maximus," the same voice beckoned gently. Fingers brushed against his cheek. "It's alright. You're here. Not anywhere else."

Fortress Max's chest continued rising and sinking evenly.

"Steady breaths. Everything's alright," Rung murmured.

Maximus whimpered in pain.

"I know, I know."

He shook in fear.

"You've been handling these episodes so well. I'm proud of you, Fortress Maximus."

The gentle rubbing only continued.

"Look at me, please," Rung gently requested.

Fort Max swallowed uneasily as he hesitantly lifted his arm, revealing the coolant leaking from his optics. Catching sight of Rung on the corner of his vision, he choked back a large sob and wiped the fluids away from his optics. Rung carefully moved down and supported himself on the back Maximus' servo. He cooed, wiping away a few drops missed, and pressed a kiss on the tip of his nose.

"Healing takes time," he whispered, caressing the bridge between his optics. "But you've done so well already."

Fort Max frowned, but slowly nodded in agreement.

"Is it getting too painful?" Rung asked after Maximus sat up and placed him on top of his thigh.

He fidgeted and glanced away. "No...I...I just get angry sometimes. It's too hard to enjoy it."

Rung nodded and patted his armor. "Would you like me to come to your next physical therapy session?"

He opened and closed his mouth a few times. "If you want to," he muttered.

"I'm asking you what you want," Rung stated calmly and smiled up at him.

Fort Max glanced away again, feeling defeated. "I guess. Yeah."

"Max, I really do enjoy staying here with you," Rung added encouragingly. "Don't ever think otherwise."

He carefully scooped Rung up in one servo and stretched out in a more comfortable position. He often worried about accidentally crushing the tiny mech—most of his fingers were longer than Rung—so most of his movements were awkward and clammy, but it felt safer that way for Rung's sake.

He lowered Rung back onto his broad chest and closed his optics. "Let me know if you move, please."

Rung nodded. "Yes, of course."

He blinked and sighed slowly. "...Thank you, Rung."

"It's no trouble, Maximus."

Biting his bottom lip, he lifted a hand up and carefully stroked Rung's head. His finger was thicker than Rung's entire body. But Rung never once expressed any fear of being harmed. He always had such a trusting expression and smiled. Sometimes, seeing that kind face was enough to forget about the darkness lingering over him.

He stared up at the ceiling and nodded to himself. "Yeah."


	5. Ratchet and the Crystal Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More cute!

When Ratchet stepped into his office, carefully hiding his new purchase under a stack of data pads, he saw Drift on his desk; awake and currently sneaking through his database. Ratchet smirked and stared down at the top of his datapads, pretending to be reading it, as he quietly walked in.

"Drift, I'm back," Ratchet announced suddenly and innocently. From the corner of his optic, he could see Drift jumping and quickly scrambling to close whatever page he was staring at.

"Uh. Welcome back!" Drift said with an anxious chuckle and faced him, arms folded behind him.

Ratchet snorted and approached both Drift and his console. "So, Drift. I want you to answer something."

He could see the flinch in the smaller mech. Drift fidgeted nervously.

"Y-you do?" Drift asked, kneading his small hands together.

Ratchet wanted to chuckle at his reaction, but he remained calm. His face pulled into a blank expression, one that appeared to be hiding irritation. He stepped closer, glancing between his datapads and Drift, and he stopped just before his database. "How dumb do you think I am?"

Drift's mouth opened and closed a few times and he made a confused gesture. "Ratchet?"

He rolled his optics and reached over Drift. With a few simple keystrokes, the browser opened on its last page. Ratchet whistled at the contents and scrolled down until a picture appeared on screen. It was an archive of Bad Predacon's older toys. The one in question had a crystalline casing on a few of its ridges, but it was mostly red and white with yellow accents.

"The Crystal Knight," Ratchet read aloud and glanced down at Drift in amusement. "Let's see. 'Live your fantasies of a fairy tale and enjoy the embrace of your very own knight.' This one's even older than you are!"

Drift swallowed and nodded sheepishly. "Uh...R-Ratchet."

"Now Drift, you aren't trying to drop a hint that you want to be replaced are you?" Ratchet asked, narrowing his optics a fraction.

"No! No, no. Ratchet, it's _nothing_ like that," Drift exclaimed, holding his arms up in defense.

"Am I...overusing you?" Ratchet frowned.

Drift sank down and shook his head. He crossed his arms. "No. It's not that, I promise!"

Ratchet sighed and took the seat at his console. He rolled closer to the desk and lifted the datapads to an empty counter space. However, he made sure to keep his purchase hidden on his lap and glanced down at it with a mischievous glimmer lighting his optics.

"It's a long story," Drift explained weakly, but after hearing Ratchet grunt, he glanced up. "And...you obviously want to hear it."

Ratchet nodded silently.

"Well. It was a long time ago, when I was first brought to the warehouse that Bad Predacon stored us in. It wasn't bad or anything. We were fed and well kept and we got to socialize with one another, me and the other models."

Ratchet made a curious sound and leaned back in his chair.

Drift rang his servos repeatedly and stared up at the medic. "There was one of them who was really...special to me," he explained and glanced back up at the database. "He was made of imported materials from Crystal City and he was just...so beautiful. Wing, that was his name."

Ratchet nodded.

"The last time I ever saw him was the day before I got packaged up. He looked so heartbroken," Drift admitted. He pulled his knees to his chestplate and frowned. "The next day was..." Drift's voice cracked up, trailing off.

"The day I bought you," Ratchet finished for him and rubbed his chin. "Drift, after all this time, why did you never tell me that?"

Drift shrugged. "Ratchet. You've been so good to me. I never felt there was enough...reason. And I didn't want to seem ungrateful."

"Drift. Shut up." Ratchet rolled his optics and brought the box up above desk level, examining it idly. "Well, I was gonna wait to hear you say you were sorry for a hundred times or so, but I figure it can't hurt now. You've waited long enough from what you've told me."

Drift quickly stood up and eyed the box. "Ratchet?"

Ratchet smiled. "Had to dig through some of their old sale records, but I do have a few friends in high places. Turns out this little beauty was bought by the minicon who owns Askewed Volts. He kept it as a vintage antique and never used it. And yes, _that_ Askewed Volts. The owner had to be the most knowledgeable being on interface I ever met," he explained and chuckled. "We'll have to try a few of his tips later on."

Ratchet placed the case down directly in front of him and glanced to Drift. "Ready to say hello?" he asked, grinning.

Drift was speechless. He bowed his helm and rubbed his optics.

Ratchet lifted the case. Inside was the very same false spike from the pictures on the screen. The pictures did it no justice though; the crystal pieces shimmered in the light. He reached in and poked at it. "Hey. You. I know you're online. You got to soak in nutrients before I brought you here."

Drift gasped into his hands and approached the case. "It...It's really him."

Ratchet nodded. When the toy flared its biolights and shifted, Ratchet pulled his arms back and rested his chin atop his servos.

The mech sitting in the padded foam glanced around with confused and wide yellow optics. But the instant he saw Drift, he froze.

"Wing?" Drift whispered and inched forward. He stood against the edge of the box and stared at the other mech. "Wing, it's me."

The other mech made a small gasp and cautiously stood up.

Ratchet had to admit that this mech was quite a looker. He was elegant and graceful.

Well, he _did_ seem that way until he tackled Drift and showered him with a hug and kiss after kiss. Ratchet cackled into the back of his servos while Drift collapsed under his weight.

"Deadlock!" Wing cried out and clung to Drift.

"Yeah, it's me, Wing," Drift closed his optics and wrapped his arms tightly around him.

Ratchet wasn't one for all the sappy romance one would read in a novel, but as he watched them both giggle and embrace each other, he couldn't picture a better reaction. 


	6. Optimus and the Gladiator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I'm caught up with what's been posted on tumblr so far.

When Optimus entered his apartment door, he dropped his work files and gazed around with shock.

The datapad shelf had been knocked over and its contents littered the floor. And there, sitting on the edge of the shelf and gazing up at him with the most wickedest grin, was the Gladiator model. A silver and black mech with subtle red lines on his sides. His arms were crossed and his tiny chest was puffed out, like he was extremely proud of himself.

"I see you made quite a mess," Optimus muttered and quickly closed his door. He locked stares with the small mech for a few moments as he approached, but after releasing a loud sigh, Optimus kneeled down and began to gather the datapads in a pile.

And then he froze after spotting _it_. His signed copy of Thunderclash's autobiography. One of the only ten copies in existence that had been kept in pristine condition. Until the shelf had fallen and cracked it.

Quickly, he evened his shallow intakes before they became audible.

Optimus knew he couldn't be angry. When he volunteered to foster the model, he was well aware of his... _pr_ o _blems_ . It all began with a visit to one of Bad Predacon's larger factories. It was his duty as Prime to ensure that that the sentient ones were being treated fairly, regardless of their functions. The tour went really well until he overheard yelling and a loud commotion in the west wing of the factory.

An older model had gotten a hold of one of the security guard's guns and had threatened to shoot. The very same one now inhabiting his suite.

He had signed a non-disclosure agreement when he requested to bring the model home. It would be a disaster in the making if some poor soul bought him unwittingly; he also realized that it would be bad publicity for Bad Predacon if it seemed like he was being bribed. So, it was for the best that the incident was swept under the rug.

"What's wrong, Prime? Going to get angry?"

His servos twitched.

"Probably not. You're too weak hearted."

He snapped his gaze back on the model, who smirked up at him.

"I have only showed you kindness. That is not weakness."

The model stood up and glared up at him from the bookshelf. "Your 'kindness' is nothing but a patronizing farce. You're lucky you haven't woken up with your disgusting spike sliced off yet."

Optimus' optics flared brightly and he quickly reached for the model before he could stop himself. "Enough! Threatening bodily harm is unacceptable."

He hated how surprised he made the model and how the small mech tried to squirm free. Optimus tightened his hand around him and lifted him to optic level. 

"Release me!" he snarled.

"You will apologize for your behavior."

He could see the tiny mech's lips twitch, but instead of speaking, he only glared and turned his head away.

Optimus sighed wearily and tried to lighten his tone. "I am only trying to ask how to help you. I haven't done anything to hurt you and yet, you've been so rebellious and bitter--"

"There!" the mech snapped. "You are no better than those other fools. You will never earn my respect while acting so timid, Prime."

Optimus blinked in surprise. And he watched as the model clawed and bit against his servo. He froze and fidgeted awkwardly. He couldn't possibly mean...

"You want me to overpower you."

The Gladiator's optics narrowed. "As if you could. You are a soft-spark, glitched fool."

"Enough," Optimus boomed suddenly.

They both paused.

Optimus despised raising his voice, but he noticed the short change in the model's behavior. He swallowed while he continued glaring. But, his optics flashed a short uncertain glance.

"You  _will_ apologize," he repeated, gesturing down to his datapads. "Some of those were extremely valuable."

The model smirked.

"Playing silent now?" he asked when no response was given. "But you were just giving me a taste of that colorful language."

Optimus made a soft grunt and stood up on his pedes again. He strolled forward towards his locked cabinet of assorted knick knacks. Despite the view many Cybertronians had of him as a chaste and pure leader, even Optimus was a mech of physical needs.

He could feel the tiny mech's optics glued on his collection of toys and lubricants after it was unlocked and opened. 

"Planning to lock me up with your kinky little toys, Prime?" he asked in a sneer.

Optimus did not answer as he grabbed a bottle of lubricant. He calmly walked to his office lounging chair and glanced down at him.

"I suppose it's not your fault that you were only seeking attention," he began. He effortlessly unclicked the bottle and allowed a thin stream to coat his servo and the tiny mech. "As ineffective and misguided as it was."

The model arched up and gasped.

"I suggest you change now," Optimus stated. His servo flexed around the mech as he moved it around to study him.

But the model did not. He simply leaned back in his servos, licked his lips, and chuckled softly. "Scared of a challenge?"

Optimus allowed his interface array cover to part and his valve cover snapped open as he shared a defiant stare with the mech. "Not at all."


	7. Hound and the Invisible Thrill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to write something really cute in this au.

Hound had been joined by his coworker, Tailbreaker, after he departed from a long and arduous shift.

It wasn't easy being one of the few mechs suited for handling wild fauna in nearly a fifty mile radius, but someone had to help the rehabilitation center. Day after day turbo foxes, or frizz-rats, or nosorons would be brought in and he helped nurse them back to health for being released. There were rare days where Hound felt overwhelmed, but it gave him pride knowing he was making a difference with the wildlife.

Unlike most typical days, a lilleth had been brought in. Primus, it was a screechy creature that kept trying to peck his optics out. They were beautiful creatures with glass-like appearances, but also possessed a very aggressive behavior during mating season. Apparently this one had been accidentally injured by a construction crew that was building by its chosen nesting ground.

"So, ya think we're gonna keep him here or transfer him to the Praxus facility?" Trailbreaker asked in a good humor.

Hound scoffed. Trailbreaker was only happy because he didn't get his optics pecked out.

"I dunno," Hound replied as he reached for his door's lock. He held it opened and glanced back at Trailbreaker with a smirk. "I wouldn't mind giving him up though. Let the spoiled thing be someone else's problem!"

They both shared a deep laugh, knowing humor was the best remedy for a stressful work day.

His coworker reached out and slapped Hound's shoulder. "Later, bud!"

Hound rolled his optics and stepped through his door, closing it behind him.

"Mirage!" he called and glanced around with a smile.

Usually, the 'Invisible Thrill'—as Bad Predacon named his model type—would play coy and make Hound work in finding him. But this time, Hound didn't even hear the faintest of giggles. He blinked and glanced around carefully.

A few minutes passed as he examined the room slowly and he frowned.

"...Mirage? I'm back."

Still no response.

Hound sighed and rubbed his optics.

A silent Mirage meant that he was hiding. And a hiding Mirage was angry about _something_. 

"It's because I'm late, isn't it?" Hound winced and began to search through his apartment. Sometimes he'd find Mirage laying against the window sill or examining himself in the mirror. No luck there.

"Come on, lovely," Hound whined and tapped his servos together. "We've talked about this. You need to tell me when I make you upset."

Hound considered himself a really nice and friendly mech. He never went out of his way to argue or insult anyone, but Mirage left him confused. Hound genuinely cared for the tiny mech and did whatever he could to keep him happy, but some days the smallest thing could leave Mirage in an aggravated state. He supposed Mirage was just a high-strung mech.

:: _Go play with the new model you're replacing me with!::_ The unusually angry voice of Mirage snapped into his comm. channel. 

Hound paused, blinking quickly as confusion distorted his face. "New model?"

_::I just heard you! You wouldn't 'mind giving him up'!::_

Hound's spark wrenched at hearing Mirage sound so upset.

"Mirage, oh that's not what I meant," he said with a soft tone and glanced around frantically. "Not you."

_::So, you want me to be someone else's problem then?::_ Mirage asked bitterly.

He could hear the tiny mech struggling to keep composure in his voice.

"No, no, no," Hound repeated. "Please come out. This is just a big misunderstanding."

_::Don't lie to me!::_

Hound blinked and frowned again.

"Mirage, lovely, have I ever lied before?"

There was a moment of silence from the other line.

_::No.::_

He glanced around again and finally spotted a flash of blue and white huddled on one corner of his padded lounger. Hound sighed as relief flooded his spark and he quickly made his way towards Mirage. He kneeled on the floor, sitting just above eye level and leaned forward. Mirage bowed his tiny helm and glanced away, idly twiddling his servos together.

"I'm so sorry," Hound said quietly and pulled Mirage closer with one servo.

The elegant little mech reached over his shoulders to cling to one of Hound's fingers. Hound nuzzled Mirage against his cheek.

"I know you probably are grossed out that I didn't clean off," he admitted sheepishly. "I'll go take a quick wash cycle.

He gently kissed the top of Mirage's head, but the miniature cloaker continued to cling to his servo.

"Take me with you?" he asked quietly and stared up at Hound.

Hound nodded eagerly and scooped him up.

"I was talking about a lilleth brought in today," he explained as he made his way to the shower rack. "Rotten thing kept trying to peck me."

Mirage nodded and leaned back, sighing. "I feel...silly now."

"Don't be, sweetness," Hound murmured and stroked the underside of Mirage's chin.

He leaned happily into the touch for several seconds, but then a devious expression appeared. Mirage quickly shifted in Hound's palm.  _::Do allow me to make this up to you, my handsome beloved.::_

Hound chuckled and quickly stepped into the washrack. "In here? Really, Mirage?"

_::It will be so much easier to clean,::_ Mirage explained with an affectionate purr and began to vibrate eagerly. Typical Mirage. 

He couldn't help but to chuckle and kiss the false spike in his servos several times. He flashed an amused expression when it cloaked and remained invisible as Hound stepped into his shower.


	8. Scrapper and the Praxian Enforcer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was trying to think about how to include my ot6 for a while. But then I realized it would have to become an ot7 to work out here. BUT that's ok. More love all around \o/
> 
>  
> 
> Also, _someone_ gave Prowl his name, but whoooo? ;D

When Scrapper heard the sound of five different pairs of footsteps rushing past him, he quickly glanced up from the datapad he was skimming over and scowled at the five other mechs crowding the windows.

"It's finally here!"

"Took 'em long enough."

"I just hope it looks acceptable."

"I think anything would be fine..."

"Scavenger, you'd be happy with a rusty stick."

Scrapper pushed up from his chair and quickly grabbed Mixmaster by his neck when the gestalt mate attempted to sneak ahead of them.

"Alright, you bums," he announced and folded his arms after shoving the hyper mech back towards the others. "Remember what I said. We don't rush with this."

He glanced long and hard at the five other mechs one by one. Long Haul wore a bored expression. Hook sighed and looked unimpressed. Scavenger flinched under his scrutinizing stare and nodded quickly. Mixmaster was bouncing back and forth in excitement. Bonecrusher popped his knuckles.

"Alright. Behind me," Scrapper ordered and quickly turned to lead the others.

Their shared quarters was a nice set up: a two story warehouse. It was paid for by the government, due to that they were an official gestalt under contract with the district of Kaon. Construction, C-Class, Kaon—that was what their Constructicon name meant unabbreviated.

The first floor was actually tall enough for their combined form to maneuver around in without having to slouch over. And it gave them some sense of privacy. It didn't hurt that they installed four layers of soundproof walls either.

And there was plenty of an advantage if the government was funding you. Energon, housing, and _other_ needs. Such as the one that was currently being delivered into their suite.

Scrapper walked down the stair railing with the others tailing behind. That is...until Mixmaster and Bonecrusher got the idea to just _jump_ down. He slapped his face with both hands and quickly cursed as they raced to the door. But, he continued walking at an even pace. His gestalt mates would need to do more to get under his plating today.

He could see three mechs standing near the doorway after Mixmaster ushered them in. Two had delivery logos plastered on their chestplates. The third was staring down at the floor. He was quite interesting in appearance; his paint job was a soft white and matte black, aside from the red chevron on his helm and red biolights lightly scattered on his frame.

Mixmaster and Bonecrusher all but ignored the two delivery mechs in favor of circling the third. Hook, Long Haul, and Scavenger all moved past him as well after they reached the final stair. The mech blinked at the sudden attention, but he did not look daunted.

"Ignore them," Scrapper said to the two mechs still standing by the door and walked forward. “They're idiots, but mostly harmless.”

"We just need a signature, sir."

He nodded in understanding and gestured to the other mech. "Normally they're delivered packaged, right?"

"Yes, but where he's quite larger than the typical models..." The clerk's voice trailed off.

"Ah. Makes sense," Scrapper replied and took the datapad.

He whistled at the invoice. The original price had been reduced by nearly forty percent as a part of their government discount. Every credit saved did indeed help. He tapped the stylus on the dotted line, pressing it to sign.

But, he paused and glanced back up. "Directions on making sure he's fed properly?"

The delivery mech shrugged. "Well, it will take more than the regular sized models. I would say feedings should equal to four groons each day?"

He nodded again and signed on the line.

"Just leave any accessories by the door and we can bring them in," Scrapper instructed and gave them a credit chip for their troubles.

And that was that.

When Scrapper turned back to his gestalt mates, he suppressed the urge to shake his head. He stepped forward and shoved the others back. "Alright, numskulls. Give 'im room!"

That did not stop the chatter between them. They all tried to speak at once, except for Scavenger, he noticed. The most timid of them all simply smiled shyly and waved at the mech.

"So, this is the 'Praxian Enforcer', huh?" Scrapper asked as he carefully lifted the mech's chin up, examining his features.

Bright blue optics blinked. He glanced to them all and nodded. "Greetings."

"Have a name?" Scrapper asked when he stepped back.

The Bad Predacon model opened his mouth a few times. "I...was given the name Prowl while staying at the warehouse. I am fond of it." He bowed his helm. "If...it's acceptable to you."

They all made a murmur of agreement.

"Yeah."

"Why not."

"Could be worse."

Scrapped could feel that they were more excited than they let on through the gestalt bond. Most were already smitten with the mech's appearance; he had to acknowledge that the mech was quite an attractive looking thing. Arousal flared up in agreement.

"The big guy is going to _l_ o _ve_ you," Mixmaster said gleefully as he strolled forward and traced a finger down the edge of one of Prowl's doorwings.

Scrapper rolled his optics and cleared his throat when Prowl made a confused sound. "He means Devastator," he clarified.

"Your combined form, I presume?"

"You catch on quick, I like that."

Prowl simply nodded.

"But, don't worry. We'll give you a few days to get used to everything. Let you get to know us a bit more and view the whole place," Scrapper explained. "There's a spare room on the second floor if you'd like to recharge separately."

Prowl smiled and bowed. "Thank you for your kindness."

"You could recharge with us," Bonecrusher said and cackled.

"Yeah, the only one with wandering hands is Scavenger. He feels up everyone in his sleep," Mixmaster added with a wink.

"D-do not!" Scavenger cried, voice cracking in embarrassment.

"I appreciate the offer, but it is very hard to recharge with pressure on my doorwings," Prowl replied and crossed his servos together. "May I be excused to see the room?"

Scrapper rubbed his chin and nodded silently.

He glanced to each gestalt member once more before turning away and carefully ascended up the railway to the second floor.

"We so gotta frag that," Long Haul muttered in awe after he was sure Prowl was far beyond earshot. Scrapper was sure his optics had been glued on Prowl's aft the entire time he walked up the stairs.

Hook slapped his helm. "You _d_ o realize that those mechs do not come with a spike or valve, correct?"

"What?!" Bonecrusher asked in a horrified expression.

"It's called research, you simpleton. Why would they be given equipment that would waste their source of nutrients?" Hook clarified.

"It doesn't matter," Scrapper quickly interjected. "This isn't for us. It's for Devastator. Slag knows the big guy could use a little happiness for once."

Mixmaster chuckled. "But _who_ makes up Devastator? He wants it because we all are secretly dirty, perverted slaggers."

Scrapper sighed and slapped Mixmaster's helm.

It was going to be a long night.


	9. Ratchet and the Primal Vanguard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some drama appears~

When Ratchet walked through the waiting area's door, with First Aid following close behind, he glanced around. It was empty, save for Tailgate. The minicon was sitting on a chair with his legs hanging humorously a couple feet above the floor. He was chatting to a tiny mech standing on his thigh.

Ratchet stared down at the purple-clad mech as he walked towards them and hid the smile his lips pulled into behind the datapad he pretended to be reading.

Tailgate looked _happier_ since he had been released. Ratchet was sure that he was relieved to not be stuck on a recharge slab and had more freedom. Granted, he still needed to return frequently for treatments. Freedom and having a choice made all the difference in motivation, Ratchet noticed throughout the years.

"Tailgate, welcome back," Ratchet announced after approaching the white and blue mech.

"Hiyya, Ratchet!" Tailgate greeted. His visor beamed brightly and he waved.

"Enjoying the time at home?" Ratchet asked, lowering his datapad.

Tailgate nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! It's not really lonely with Cyclonus around either. Can you thank whoever...uh...got him for me?" he asked as he tapped his fingers together.

"I don't think it's necessary to thank them, Tailgate," Ratchet replied after producing a soft chuckle. "I'm sure they know already."

Tailgate glanced down to the miniature mech standing on his thigh. "Yeah."

Ratchet nodded and crossed his arms, holding the datapad against the crook of his elbow-joint. "Alright. Let's go get your scan done," he said in encouragement and gave a few pats to the minicon's shoulder.

He watched as the mech named Cyclonus gracefully pulled himself up to Tailgate's shoulder without assistance. Tailgate waited to move until the small mech seated himself down and carefully climbed off of the chair.

"It's going to be a typical spark scan," Ratchet explained as he led Tailgate through the waiting room and down the examination corridor. But, he was sure Tailgate could walk the path blindfolded at this point; considering the countless times he's had the procedure, Ratchet wouldn't be surprised if he could direct the staff on how to perform it.

As they approached the doorway to the scanning office, Ratchet stopped just before it and held out his arm.

"I'm going to bring Cyclonus with me," he explained. "Even the tiniest spark could throw off the results, Tailgate."

Tailgate made a soft, uncertain sound. He fidgeted as he stared up at Ratchet, but he relented and nodded. "Just...take care of him! Please, Ratchet."

The medic smiled as the tiny mech effortlessly jumped onto his arm. "Don't worry. It will only be a few minutes Tailgate. We'll be in the observation room right next door."

Tailgate nodded again, and he was lead inside by First Aid. The doorway snapped shut.

Ratchet glanced down to Cyclonus. The tiny mech had his arms folded and gazed at spot Tailgate had just been standing in. He quickly cleared his throat and carefully turned to enter the door directly adjacent to the scanner room. Inside, a small office greeted him. Facing him directly on the wall to the left was a two way, long glass panel. Ratchet sat down at the desk.

Cyclonus jumped down from his arm and stared through the window.

Ratchet flicked the switch for the diagnostic machine on the desk up, activating it. It would let him monitor the results from the next room.

"Cyclonus, was it?" he asked, but he did not look in the model's direction. "How is Tailgate adjusting to his home?"

When the other mech did not reply at first, Ratchet frowned.

A short grunt broke the silence.

"He...has been happy. He speaks fondly of this place often."

Ratchet chuckled.

"And of you," Cyclonus added in a gruff, deep voice.

Ratchet blinked and glanced away from the glass to Cyclonus. The miniature Cybertronian was gazing intensely at the panel, watching as First Aid spoke to Tailgate and strapped him down to the medical berth.

"I can't help but wonder how _lucky_ it was that Tailgate's anonymous benefactor chose me out of all models. It is beyond coincidence that a stranger would instantly know of Tailgate's condition and how he is familiar with old Cybertronian..." he mused, a swift flicker of a glance canted up in Ratchet's direction. "But I suppose I will never have the chance to thank them in person." He smirked with a knowing expression.

Ratchet opened and closed his mouth a few times, but he snorted with a good humor and turned his attention back to Tailgate. "I suppose life's just funny that way."

In those few minutes, the scan had already been completed and First Aid stepped out from the barrier beside the berth. The assistant medic glanced back to Ratchet, looking crestfallen. Ratchet sighed and his helm fell into his servos.

"Tailgate will not speak to me about his illness. It is serious?" Cyclonus pressed.

"He...shouldn't even be at home. He needs to be monitored," Ratchet admitted, shoulders sinking down. "But--"

"You didn't want him to be trapped in a room," Cyclonus finished softly.

Ratchet nodded. "Ever since he was diagnosed, the poor 'bot has been stuck in the same hospital suite for years. Test, after test. Always poking and prodding at his spark. And yet...he's always so happy."

"I understand," Cyclonus murmured in response.

"Let's not keep him waiting," Ratchet muttered softly and held out his servo for Cyclonus.

When they both stepped out of the room, Tailgate was waiting eagerly, leaning back and forth on his pedes. He beamed when he saw Cyclonus and held out his servos.

"Everything looks good!" he exclaimed to the small mech.

"Alright," Ratchet began and patted Tailgate's head. "Go on home. You know the way out."

Tailgate thanked First Aid and Ratchet before he walked away with a skip in his step.

"Ratchet," First Aid whispered in a hushed tone. "The scans...It's a small percentage, but the results came back with a higher negative this time. It hasn't been very long since Tailgate went home, but at this rate--"

"I know." Ratchet watched as Tailgate disappeared around a corner. He rubbed his optics and sighed again. "Let's get ready for the next patient. Fort Max actually comm.ed me and requested the next block."

First Aid nodded, but neither moved; they took a short time to share their revelation as sadness leered overhead. 


	10. Minimus Ambus and the Hot Rod II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was totally timed on purpose to be a parody of BotCon. Which I will never be able to attend. Let me just lay in a sad ball in the corner. ;;;;;;

"Ugh! This is so boring!"

"Shush," Minimus scolded the tiny mech hanging dramatically from his shoulder. He rolled his optics and gazed down at the datapad he held close—using his free hand to stroke his chin idly.

"It's just a bunch of words. Who cares if you form them into pretty sentences?" the tiny mech responded, gesturing wildly with his arms.

"I'm not talking to you," Minimus grumbled aloud; more to himself than anyone.

"Are you still angry because I did the impossible and got an orgy started?"

Minimus froze. He could hear the smug attitude oozing from the model perched on his shoulder. He swallowed, trying to ignore the embarrassing flashback. The whole damn day had been nothing but _humiliating_ for him.

It all began when he learned that his presence as the current Ultra Magnus would be required to monitor the annual convention for Bad Predacon. Why? Apparently, it was to ensure ethical practices were still ongoing as well as keeping the gathering from getting out of hand. But, there was a catch: Minimus had to attend without his suit. It would make all the vendors nervous to have an obvious person of authority attending. At that point, he wasn't even sure what a convention would even entail, but after buying a certain 'Hot Rod', he was extremely wary.

When he arrived an hour before the convention officially opened, it was swarmed with mechs of all sizes eagerly waiting to get in.

He walked through the sliding glass doors, shielding his optics from banner hanging above the entrance. It depicted an actual Predacon posing in a crude and risque manner; the thought just made him shiver uncomfortably.

It was relieving to see that the convention floor, although quite large, was organized in many neat rows. He hated to admit it, but it wasn't the disgusting room he'd imagined it to be. A few waste disposal units were finishing steaming the floors. The staff were enthusiastic in their greetings and waved to him as he walked by.

He paused at a booth to his right. It had several large false spikes aligned on the display rack. No, forget large. The things were gargantuan.

Minimus scowled down at the flier on the glass case.

In flashy, bolded print, it read: "NEWER AND IMPROVED DINOBOT MODEL. _Tyrannosaurus Wrecks You._ "

His jaw dropped when he saw the measured dimensions. It was a long as the distance from his wrist to his elbow. And it was thicker than his thigh. The silver and gold false spike had a very animalistic appearance with ridges running along its underside and an unmistakable knot at the midsection.

The clerk at the counter made an amused giggle when he saw how horrified Minimus' expression grew. "Yeah. That's one of the most popular models this year! The owner is coming to pick him up sometime today. He was so lucky to win the lottery, I don't know how he managed it!"

Minimus felt sick at the thought of trying to get that girth to _fit_.

"Wanna see it?" the clerk asked with a teasing wink.

"Uhh."

Before Minimus could process the request and give a proper answer, the employee hoisted a large and hefty case embellished with silver decals with a loud grunt. The case was even larger than his chest. When the clerk placed it down, unclicked the case opening, and turned it around, Minimus made a painful wince.

Forget pictures.

That...thing was a hundred times more imposing in person.

He shuddered again and quickly cleared his throat. "That's n-nice," he stuttered with his voice breaking into a higher pitch and he swiftly walked away from the booth.

"You two enjoy the convention," the clerk called after him in a sing-song voice.

Minimus blinked and paused mid-step. Two?

He must of misheard.

"Boy, I wish I was _that_ size!" an all too familiar voice pipped up right against his audio receptors.

Minimus tensed up and hesitantly glanced to his left shoulder. There sat his purchased model, legs crossed, and he was giving Minimus the biggest slag-eating grin.

"Hi, handsome," he greeted loudly. "Miss me?"

"What are you doing here?!" Minimus hissed and glanced around. He chuckled nervously when he realized that several of the vendors were watching and giggling at the scene.

"You were really going to leave me at your boring house? I feel unloved," the 'Hot Rod' whined over dramatically and leaned against his shoulder. "Oh. And I hitched a ride on your back. If I tried walking here, it'd take me all day!"

Minimus groaned and quickly plucked the mech up by his waist, bringing him to optic level. "You are going to stay where I can see you and we'll talk about this later," he gritted out.

"I can think of one place you could keep me AND keep me out of trouble," he suggested lewdly.

Minimus sighed and continued walking.

He passed by a large pen, where numerous of the tiny mechs similar the his model's size were socializing. The gate had a see-through wall lined all around it and it came up to Minimus' waist. He blinked and leaned against it, peering down at them with curiosity.

The closest ones perked up after he approached and all spewed in excitement.

"Heyya, big boy! Pick me and I'll show ya a good time!" one of them catcalled and winked.

Minimus backed away and glanced down with an embarrassed expression.

"Aww. He's shy! Adorable."

Minimus could only quicken his pace as he walked away.

"Hey, I'm hungry. Why don't we have a quicky?"

Minimus could feel his faceplate heating. "Are you insane? Here?! In public?"

"Um...yes? Here! Why not?" the model asked with a cheeky grin.

"Because it would be so many counts of public indecency and I would be cited! And that's even if I wanted to," he added in a mutter.

Hot Rod made a loud sputter of laughter and grabbed his sides. "What? Nuh-uh! Any usual decency laws about interfacing in public are null and void during the convention, so long as it stays within three hundred feet of the building!"

Minimus froze. "...What."

He frantically pulled out his datapad and stood as still as a statue, rereading the entire document over and over. The little smug dastard was correct. He stalked to the closest chair, dragged it over to the closest corner, and he sat down. He could do more than enough monitoring there. He just hoped no one would notice him looking deep in thought; reflecting on his life choices.

"Um. Hello!" Hot Rid cried and nudged his cheek with a push. "The fun's gonna be over there. With all the people."

Minimus made a loud sigh and stared at the entrance door with narrowed optics. "We're staying here."

"Uh huh. Look. I can promise if you don't have a little fun, I'll make you regret it," Hot Rod chuckled.

"I doubt that. I'm not letting you out of my sight," Minimus snapped, brows pressing down tightly.

"Is...that a challenge?" Hot Rod asked with false surprise.

Minimus sighed again and slapped a servo to his head. Yeah, he still couldn't figure out how his life choices had brought him to this situation.

A siren suddenly rang through the air. It was instantly followed by the enormous crowd outside whooping and cheering; so loud that it echoed through the convention walls and shook the building. Minimus couldn't help but towince in dread. The glass door of the entrance slid open and mechs quickly poured in.

Chatter filled the air.

Countless mechs entered the building and the mass quickly spread out. Some mechs made a beeline for the closest booths and struck up conversations with the vendors and employees. A large majority walked over to the glass pin with all the models. Minimus noticed that many, many of them entering had miniature mechs sitting on their shoulders or were carrying them with one hand.

The first hour passed by extremely uneventful, to Minimus' relief. It was relatively... _normal_. But that didn't stop Minimus from slouching back in his chair, arms folded against his chest, as he observed the event with a pout. The longer as he watched, he felt an odd ping growing in his spark. The mechs who entered the convention treated the models accompanying them so tender and lovingly. He never once heard the word "slave" or "toy" used to address them, like he expected.

He was more surprised that his own model had remained quiet. And was he behaving.

Minimus frowned, reached to the back of his neck plating and scratched at it awkwardly. "Alright. I feel like I owe you an explanation," he began, staying mindful of keeping his voice down and coughed. "When...I...errm. When I made that purchase, I had been slightly...overcharged. My work rarely allows me to relax and it's once in a blue lunar cycle that I make--ahem--these decisions. That is why I did not 'read the fine print' as you put it."

He sighed.

"And it's also why this is hard for me to adjust to. Do you understand?"

There was no response.

He blinked and glanced to his shoulder, instantly producing an audible gasp. He patted his frame frantically and stood up. The Hot Rod managed to slip away.

Minimus quickly paced forward, glancing back and forth with a subdued hysterics.

Fortunately, he didn't have to look far. Unfortunately, his model was sitting on a glass counter and quite loudly cheering on a group of mechs fondling each other: a pair of Seekers, one black and purple, the other a deep blue and light grey, and several grounder types. Primus, give him strength.

He cleared his throat and marched forward, directly for Hot Rod. "There you are!" he hissed softly and snatched him up.

The small mech winked and put his hands to his mouth. "What's that, Minimus?! You want to join? Just ask them, silly!"

He jerked in response and quickly pressed his finger to his model's mouth, optics dilating in a nervous display. The groups of mechs had paused and were all staring at him with a bemused expression.

"Wow, and I thought we had cheeky ones," the darker Seeker spoke up and pulled away from the group. He stepped forward, canting his hips with each step and playfully stroked Hot Rod's head. "What's wrong, little fella? Someone's feisty."

"I'm being neglected." It was a purposefully nasally whine.

Minimus rolled his optics.

"I can give you a use," the seeker said with a wink.

"'Warp, stop that," the other Seeker called out. "Don't make Sunstreaker and Sideswipe jealous."

Minimus glanced to the blue Seeker, spotting both two small mechs sitting on his shoulder, and aside from one being yellow and the other red, they were identical. They crossed their arms and were glaring daggers at his model.

The black seeker cackled in mischief and slapped Minimus' shoulder, like one would when greeting an old friend. "No harm done. Wanna join us?"

"Uh."

Before he knew it, his arm was tugged by the Seeker and he simply followed with a flushed facial plate. Several mechs had gathered around and several more were approaching. At the very least, he wasn't being given judgmental stares.

Minimus gave a resigned sigh and nodded. It was so wrong in so many ways and beyond the point of feeling ashamed—why bother stopping now?

"Why not?"


	11. Starscream and the Scientific Pursuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I forgot to add this chapter sooner. \o/

"Where is he?!"

Thundercracker casually glanced up from the downloaded novel he had been quite absorbed into. He blinked a few times and stared up at his trinemate. "Who?" he asked, leaning back against his padded seat. His wings flicked up as he shifted into a more comfortable position.

"Don't play dumb! Your little toy!" Starscream shrieked furiously.

Thundercracker continued blinking, noting the bright and messy streaks of paint on Starscream's armor. His trinemate was covered in several paint globs. He raised a brow and smiled, but held a chuckle back behind closed lips.

"Don't! Laugh!" Starscream snapped in anger.

Thundercracker rolled his optics and lifted his datapad back up to optic level. He frowned as Starscream continued to yell obscenities and screeched in anger. This wasn't the first time Starscream was the victim of a well-placed paint bomb. They were usually hidden somewhere in his lab among his tools or above his door frame.

"Starscream," he sighed. "You know they hate it when you call them just toys."

The red and white seeker, currently posed in an aggressive stance and fuming, whipped around and glared at him. "Well, if they were better behaved, I wouldn't have to insult them!"

"Hey!" a sudden cry pipped up from Thundercracker's shoulders.

Both Seekers paused to glance at the yellow mech. He had managed to climb up Thundercracker's frame while they both were distracted in conversation and lounged against his grey spaulders.

Sunstreaker and his twin, Sideswipe, were a rare set from Bad Predacon. Their model name was the _Jet Judo Supreme_ —designed specifically for Seekers and their high maintenance interfacing habits. The pair were just as high strung as any Seeker one could find. But, they were a perfect match for the two Seekers. Sideswipe and Skywarp were an infamous duo and if it was not one behind a prank on Starscream, it was the other.

"It was Skywarp," Sunstreak stated in a bored tone and flicked tiny specks away from his yellow finish. "He took some of my paint."

Thundercracker suppressed a snort. It was only expected that the yellow model was angry about his materials being used in such a childish prank. Sunstreaker, unlike his twin, was much more mature and never partook in them.

"You traitor!"

The yell was muffled. All optics traveled over towards the spare supplies closest.

Thundercracker sighed.

Starscream howled and stalked towards the door. "Get out here, Skywarp!"

When red and white filled the doorway connected to the hallway that led to their bedrooms and Starscream's lab, Thundercracker tilted his helm and waved the behemoth frame in. It was Skyfire. Starscream purchased the large mech from Bad Predacon's recent convention. He had been smitten with the so-called _Scientific Pursuit_ since seeing him; Thundercracker noticed a subtle change in the Seeker's behavior after he returned home with Skyfire and with the few weeks that already passed.

Skyfire was extremely tall. They only came to his chestplate standing at their full height. He was modeled after a shuttle-type mech, incorporating the whole flier-like appearance into his frame. And he was a very tame red and white color.

Thundercracker nodded to Starscream after his trinemate began to claw at the closest door.

The tall model gave a single nod in understanding and flashed an apologetic smile. He stepped after him within a few long strides and placed his hand on Starscream's shoulder. His palm was large enough to dwarf the shoulderplate.

Starscream froze and glanced back at the other mech. However, he made a prideful sneer and jerked back. "Not now, Skyfire. I need to strip Skywarp of his idiotic brain!"

"Starscream..." Skyfire's voice was gentle, yet still had a discreet warning to its tone.

"Not. Now!" Starscream snapped.

In an instant, powerful hands wrapped around Starscream's arms. The Seeker yelped in surprise, but quickly flailed and kicked at Skyfire. He shrieked and demanded to be put down, but Skyfire only smiled and gently hoisted Starscream over on shoulder.

"My apologies," Skyfire murmured and turned back towards the hall doorway.

Thundercracker watched as the large mech departed with a screeching Seeker struggling to get down from his shoulder. He glanced back to Sunstreaker and shared a knowing smirk with the model.

 

* * *

 

"How dare you--I mean, off all the nerve--you big buffoon!" Starscream sputtered in a high pitch. He punched along Skyfire's broad shoulder and kicked at his chest plate.

"Starscream. I would appreciate it if you didn't hit me," Skyfire replied simply.

"Put me down!" the seeker ordered.

"Not until I get you washed off."

He seethed in rage. "Must you always be so bothersome?!"

Skyfire chuckled, but he remained silent for the few seconds it took to walk to the shared washrack. He opened the door and placed Starscream down. "Get yourself cleaned off and I will get the lab prepared," he purred. He leaned closer and teasingly pecked Starscream on the mouth.

Starscream quickly perked up, wings hitching high up in the air. "I see," he murmured, all traces of his anger quickly vanished. He darted under the closest shower head and activated it without another word, eager for Skyfire's promise. His frame grew warm, quickly matching the hot temperature for the cleaning solvent spraying over him. There would be a chance to get revenge on his slag-headed trinemate later, so he would drop the matter...for now.

He chose the bare minimum cycle for his wash, feeling too eager to do little more than wash the paint off.

And if things were heading in the direction he not-so-secretly yearned for, it would be pointless to get too clean.

Starscream rushed out of the shower in a quick pace; his wings were twitching and flicking back and forth so eagerly. He strode up to his lab door and watched as it opened with a wave of the hand. He smirked and stepped inside with a coy posture. He approached the chair seated in front of his desk. He traced his finger over the broad armrest and padded back support and he circled the red and white seat several times, eyeing it with a new found hunger.

The chair...no. It was more like a bulky throne compared to Starscream's size. And he loved it.

He casually took a seat on the warm, flat surface and leaned back. Before he could enjoy the seat, suddenly cuffs sprang out from slots that opened on the armrest and clicked on Starscream's wrists; his legs got the same treatment and were cuffed just as quickly. He shivered with anticipation.

::It appears I have a challenger for a trivial pursuit,:: Skyfire's voice purred loudly.

"If you can call your elementary questions 'trivia'," Starscream retorted with a bored tone.

But they both knew he was far from bored.

The chair shifted a few inches to both sides. Starscream's legs were spread apart. Directly in between his thighs, a panel of the chair slid apart and a large false spike sprung up. It was ridged with several circular knots ascending from the head to the base.

::First question. Name a liquid substance that can cause Cybertronians to malfunction.::

"Easy," Starscream said as he wiggled in anticipation. "Anti-electrons!"

::Correct,:: Skyfire hummed. The false spike immediately vibrated and buzzed to life.

"Skyfire, pleeeeease!" he mewled and immediately grinded down on the chair.

::Settle down,:: the other mech chided.

Starscream whined impatiently, but otherwise remained silent.

::What is an impervious metal to heat and radiation, but can still be melted to a liquid form if prepared correctly?:: Skyfire asked.

"Trick question," Starscream gasped. "It's an impervious alloy. Not a single metal."

The false spike buzzed again and then stroked his interface array. He eagerly released his valve cover and arched in delight. There was no need to worry about lubricant as the toy slid into his valve. Starscream was already soaked and dripping from his valve. It had a thin crest on the base that teased his outer node with light prodding.

::This material is used in construction of frame parts."

"C-Cyber..." Starscream wheezed. The false spike was so large. And yet, he wanted more.

::Yes?:: Skyfire pressed, giving the false spike a firm roll.

"Cybertronium!" he cried, arching up at the sudden jerk.

::Very good. That's three for three.:: Skyfire murmured cheerfully.

Starscream's legs were pulled even further apart by the chair. And the false spike started its rhythmical thrusting. Starscream couldn't hold back the giddy moan he produced. He tried to shift in his seat, to meet each thrust, but the cuffs held him in place.

::Just a fair warning, Starscream. I'm exceptionally hungry,:: Skyfire said slowly, emphasizing each word with a sudden thrust.

Starscream could only gasp and groan happily as he thrashed wantonly in his current ensnarement.


	12. Misfire and the Tyrannosaurus Wrecks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was super fun to write ;D

Misfire fidgeted, pressing as tightly as he could to the armrest of the apartment's lounger. It had been awkward walking back from convention—he nearly stepped on two minibots fragging each other to the ground, bumped into a mech who had sandwiched a much slimmer one between himself and a wall, and he got an optic full of strange spike piercings that didn't even seem possible. And that wasn't even taking into account the huge case he had to lug back to his shared apartment.

Crankcase had been the one who dared him to enter the raffle. But, he didn't read the details about the potential prizes; in hindsight, he really wish he had. Misfire had no idea what to do with the extremely large false spike. When he picked it up at the orgy convention, it was made very clear by the rep at the raffle desk that their would be negative consequences if he attempted to sell it. Weird.

So, here he was: glancing from his arm to the girthy false spike sitting on the seat beside him. Misfire scowled as he kept comparing the lengths and he came to the conclusion that the monster would tear him apart if he merely attempted to use it. Tyrannosaurus Wrecks You, indeed.

And then...the spike shifted? Misfire jumped in surprise when the spike was replaced by a short, but bulky mech.

"Um. Whoa," Misfire whispered in surprise and leaned closer. The mech was just as intimidating as the spike that had been in his place moments ago. Its visor was darkened and narrowed and growled in a loud, domineering display.

Things went south the instant Misfire reached forward and poked his gut with curiosity.

Before he could comprehend it, the miniature mech grabbed his finger and yanked it. Misfire yelped as the tug was strong enough to pull him forward a few inches. He was horrified and distracted by the revelation that something so small was incredibly strong and he quickly fell off the padded couch. The next thing he knew, tiny hands grabbed at the side of his helm and forced him to look over his shoulder. From the corner of his optics, he was met by an angrier looking visor that beamed brightly.

"You're strong, alright," Misfire commented with a nervous chuckle and tried to pull away, but the model's grip only tightened. "Easy, tiny fella."

The short mech snorted and, just as quickly, the hands squeezing his left finial relented. Misfire climbed back onto the couch, albeit warily, and stared down at the model. The model glared back.

"Uhhh. Want...some energon? That clerk mentioned something about you needing fuel regularly," Misfire mumbled as he reached for the insert that came with the case housing the false spike. He read it over slowly and in a bored manner.

Something pushed between his thighs and suddenly clawed at his crotch.

Misfire shuddered in surprise and glanced down, jerking at the sight of the same model now wedged in between his legs and still pawing at his interface array. And as he produce a stubborn grunt and tried to pull back from the insistent touches, that was when he spotted the tiny tidbit of information that described how these Bad Predacon toys were fed from...interfacing.

"Oh, hell," Misfire hissed and threw his head back.

The tiny little bugger was incredibly strong and Misfire just unwittingly put the idea of feeding in his head.

He tried to nudge the model away and frowned. But, it only provoked another loud growl. Misfire sighed in defeat.

"Alright, alright. Just. Don't bite. Please," Misfire begged and winced.

With a grunt, Misfire released his interface array. He expected his valve to be assaulted with painful pinches and more clawing. He was surprised when the exact opposite happened and his valve lips were given a few gentle caresses before being spread apart.

"You know what you're doing," Misfire commented shakily and hid his face behind one hand. He propped his arm up against the armrest and braced back into the couch. His wings quivered in excitement and his legs spread apart ever further.

Feral snorts spewed out in his valve as the model slid his arms forward. They began to move side to side repeatedly, mimicking a scissoring motion. Fingers brushed against sensor nodes carefully, drawing out a hearty moan from Misfire. He shivered in delight as they grabbed at each node individually and massaged them. The model quickly took advantage of how relaxed Misfire felt and he began to inch forward, following the nodes in his valve.

Misfire could only throw his helm back and forth in pleasure. He squirmed in excitement and tried his best to rock into his valve's intrusion. He was already so close to an overload charge, frame overheated and burning in yearning. And yet, the beast wasn't satisfied. Node after node was given attention of their own. It became abundantly clear what his goal was when Misfire felt stern prodding on his ceiling node. Misfire gasped and rolled his head back at the unexpected movement.

He swallowed down and dared to look at his valve. The small mech was barely waist deep in there and he was already at his ceiling node. He whimpered and he overloaded instantly. Misfire froze when he realized that not a single drop of transfluid had flooded out though. A rumbling sensation swarmed through his valve and it was followed by what felt like a suckling.

"Slag! Nghhhhhhhhh...Ahhh....S-slag!" Misfire cursed, panting hysterically.

The model went into a frenzy after Misfire finished the overload. His ceiling node was given more attention. Misfire could only whimper with arousal.

 

* * *

 

Misfire lost track of the count by the sixth overload. He laid back on the couch, panting and shivering in a post-coitus mess. It was amazing, but not a single drop of fluid had spilled out. Soon after, the model wiggled out of his valve, wiping his face of any left over transfluid and quickly licking it away.

"You...are...a...glutton," Misfire whispered and chuckled, relaxing on the couch.

The model replied with a pleased snort.

And that's when the apartment's door clicked open.

Misfire's mouth formed a silent 'uh-oh'.

"Misfire," Fulcrum's voice called out.

He froze. The model, standing on his leg, perked up at the new voice.

Fulcrum walked inside and made his way to the couch. He skirted around the opposite end of the lounger, nose in a datapad, and regarded Misfire with a nod. "The others are caught up in traffic, I guess. Some weird convention or something? Yeah," he rambled on. "Hmm."

Misfire glanced from Fulcrum back to the model. He still looked quite hungry and was sizing Fulcrum up.

"Which reminds me," Fulcrum continued on, "didn't you win something?"

"Uhhh. Yes?" Misfire replied with a distracted tone and tried his best to subtly grab the model before it had the chance to make a move—though he made the movement with forgetting that the Bad Predacon toy was incredibly strong.

And he was pulled off of the couch again, landing flat on his aft.

"Misfire, are you on a circuit speeder agai--ACK!" Fulcrum shrieked. "What. Is. THAT?!" he asked, pointing at the model.

Misfire slowly stood up and supported himself on their couch, since he legs were shaking. "This is...what I won," he explained and moved his servos in an awkward gesture.

Fulcrum peered down at the model and frowned. "Wait a second. That's a Bad Predacon toy. You...won a Bad Predacon toy? You?!" Fulcrum pointed at him, accusingly. "You had to 've cheated!"

"Pffft. You're just jealous, loser," Misfire replied casually. He then opened his mouth again, intent on informing his roommate that the model was very hungry, but was beat to it as the model climbed on Fulcrum's lap.

"Umm. What's he doing?" Fulcrum asked and tried to pick up the mech off of his lap. But his hand was quickly grabbed, fingers bent awkwardly in a warning. Fulcrum hissed and made a panicked yelp. And then he shot a glare in Misfire's direction.

"Ah. Forgot to mention he's really strong. Crazy, right? And...uh...I just fed him and all, but he's still really hungry I think," Misfire muttered and shrugged under Fulcrum's glare.

Misfire watched as the toy repeated the same behavior as before and wedged himself between Fulcrum's thighs.

"No!" Fulcrum scolded and flicked the model's head.

It was met with a dangerously low-pitched growl.

"It's the only way he can fuel, Fulcrum," Misfire explained and handed the informational pamphlet off.

Fulcrum froze, reading information with a scowl. "It's not my responsibility," he snapped, gritting his denta. "You're the one that won him. And...and just look at him! He's huge."

"Yeah," Misfire agreed. "And he just made me overload...uh--" he then paused, counting his fingers. Eventually he gave up with a shrug. "--a bunch of times."

"Then why me?!" Fulcrum asked with a squeak.

Before Misfire had the chance to reply again, the model had grown impatient and started to claw for access at his panels. Fulcrum arched up and made a conflicted noise, quickly slapping a hand to his mouth.

"Alright, alright, alright!" Fulcrum cried and lightly swatted at the model. "You get one overload. T-that's it!"

Misfire chuckled and scooted closer. "Here, nerd." In mere moments, Misfire grabbed Fulcrum by his hips and lifted up him, letting his rest on his lap. The stubborn toy clinged to Fulcrum, never taking its stare away from its prize.

Fulcrum sighed and leaned back into Misfire's touch, whining stubbornly. Misfire chuckled and nuzzled the back of his neck. Seconds later, he heard the unmistakable sound of Fulcrum's own panels sliding open, accompanied with a victorious growl from the Bad Predacon model. Misfire grinned when he felt the shiver run through the other mech's frame.

"A-Ahhhhhh! He's big. So big," Fulcrum exclaimed.

Neither of them heard the door open again. Though, it was made extremely obvious that they were no longer alone when something dropped on the floor and someone cleared their throat. Misfire glanced over his shoulder and blinked at the sight of Crankcase, Flywheels, and Spinister staring with gaping expressions.

"So, you guys wanna hear about my day?" Misfire asked with a cheeky grin.

Misfire realized his mistake moments later when the model pulled out of Fulcrum's valve and peered around him. He followed Misfire's gaze over the couch and stared at the newcomers intensely.

"W-what gives? I'm so close, you runt!" Fulcrum grunted in annoyance. His chest was heaving up and down as he panted.

"So, Crankcase," Misfire began, smiling innocently. "Remember...months ago, when you dared me to enter that raffle? Yeah?"

Crankcase instantly frowned. "No way."

"Yep. The good news is that I'm sharing him?"

 

* * *

 

Krok wanted to curse his luck—the worse kind of being stuck behind traffic for hours because weird Cybertronians started a riot with interfacing. Roadways had been blocked as the Cybertronian police force attempted to ended the ridiculous thing in a non-violent manner. As if. More like they didn't want to touch the mechs interfacing, in Krok's opinion.

He trudged up the stairway to his apartment complex, hovering outside the door. It was unusually quiet, considering who he shared the housing quarters with. More often than not, Misfire could be heard screaming about the mythical Necrobot or something. His ragtag group of roommates never did quiet.

He considered the possibility that they had all gotten caught up in the traffic like he had been. That'd be a welcome change.

Krok opened the door and stepped into the apartment. He blinked after he saw his roommates collapsed all around the room. Misfire and Fulcrum shared the couch. Flywheels was sharing their lap space, stretched on both mechs. Crackcase was laying on top of Spinister.

"What...the...hell." Krok's voice trailed off as he glanced around.

He then spotted, sitting in a very impatient posture with arms crossed over its chest, a very small mech. He narrowed his optics and walked closer. Beside the small mech was a insert datapad, some kind of informational pamphlet. He reached down and yanked it up, scanning the written text.

Krok paused and glanced to his roommates again. They were still knocked out, frames unconsciously relaxed after the chaos Krok missed. He then turned his attention to the toy, noticing how it gazed up at him with a predatory glower.

"...How big are you?" Krok asked curiously.

He watched as the Bad Predacon model considered his question before it shifted into a false spike. His optics widened and his frame instantly heated up at the mere sight of it. Quickly, Krok glanced at the others one last time before he leaned down. He snatched the false spike to his chest and quietly made his way to his room.

Unlike some, he had some decency to keep his interfacing practices private.

 

 

Hours later, Krok learned a valuable lesson: Determination alone is never enough and prepping oneself is the key.


	13. Whirl and the M.T.O

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly feelings and plot? What even. This is like a reverse p-w-p. B[ Dissapointment!!!
> 
> Also. It was really fun writing that punch...

"What the slag is this?" Whirl asked, narrowing his optic on the so-called gift from his coworkers.

A party, they threw for him. To celebrate all the 'good' work he had been doing since joining the police force. He hated parties. But, it wasn't the disgustingly good mood everyone had been in when he walked into the building, or the flash of lights and applause, or even the sloppily designed banner.

Whirl secluded himself to a corner of the main office and drank up as much fake high grade he could ingest—as the act of drinking actual high grade was prohibited during work hours. But, the surprise party put Whirl in such a bad mood, he was tempted to go buy some of the good stuff and get himself slagged over. And during his self-imposed seclusion, that was when Impactor of all mechs approached him and held out a overly decorated box.

Impactor grinned. "We know the transition here has been rough for a while, Whirl. But, you haven't killed anyone yet and that's quite an accomplishment."

Well, in Whirl's opinion, the body count could go up by a few if the day didn't end soon enough.

Whirl's mono-optic shifted from Impactor's face down to the box he extended out.

"Come on, Whirl," Impactor said, looking somewhat insulted as he kept holding the box out. "It's a gift from us. It was really hard to buy this because of the background checks. We even had to go meet the actual owner of the company to explain the situation."

Whirl's optic narrowed. His rotors jerked a few degrees. He made a soft grunt of aggravation before snapping his claws together. Begrudgingly, he reached out and pinched the box between his pincers and dropped it on his lap.

"Careful, Whirl!" Impactor hissed. "Don't break 'im already."

Whirl paused. "Him?" he asked while pinching at the lid of the tiny box. It was only as long as most typical datapad styluses; the width gave Whirl trouble with clasping it tightly.

"Need some hel--" Impactor was cut off abruptly when Whirl darted his gaze to the police major and glared. He held up his servo in a 'no offense meant' stance and took a few steps back.

Whirl finally unlatched the box and peeked at the contents. It was a blue and white false spike, curved at the base. Bright orange biolights ran up and down its sides. Whirl could feel the light draining from his optic. "This...is supposed to be a gift?" he asked and closed the box's lid again. "A toy for interfacing?"

Impactor frowned. "But it's one of those Bad Predacon models, Whirl. Not just a toy."

"Well, golly gee. Let me clarify that," Whirl snapped. "A special not-just-toy that I won't even be able to use. I dunno why though!" he hissed as he snapped a claw at Impactor's face. “But, it's the thought that counts. Right?!”

"Whirl," Impactor sighed and crossed his arms. "You just need to give it a chance. I'm sure you'll find a creative way to use it."

Whirl didn't respond immediately. He lifted his blocky helm back towards the...party. The other mechs were talking in their own social circle. Laughing. Grinning. Slapping each other's shoulders. And then, Whirl made the day's first reckless decision and quickly stood up from his chair. Without a word, he drew his free arm back and punched Impactor's face with the blunt end of his claw.

And now, here he was back at his apartment. Suspended from work for a few weeks on "personal" vacation time. The blasted box was still seated on his lap.

"I blame you," Whirl muttered as he balanced an oval-shaped cube of highgrade in one claw.

He took a long swig of highgrade and glared at his window. However, he didn't stare for long after he heard a distinct scratching coming from the box of his gift. He made a loud sigh and lifted the lid again. Maybe he was starting to be the right amount of drunk, but the false spike wasn't in the box. Instead, there sat a confused and frightened looking tiny mech.

"Qu--Wait. Who are you?"

Whirl blinked. "The hell."

Yellow optics gazed up at him. The mech was teal and white. Miniature plates similar to wings on a seeker protruded from his back and shoulders. Orange lines ran from the faux wings to his arms. The tiny mech's head was blocky and white, with a few subtle curves adorning to the tips of his helm, and his face was a darker shade of orange. Perhaps also wearing a face mask? Whirl was too drunk to care.

"You...aren't my owner," the tiny mech said, visibly wilting.

"Funny," Whirl replied and took another sip of his drink. "Funny, because you were given to me as a gift. So...yeah. Aren't I?"

The tiny mech blinked and made a surprised hitch. "That...means. I was bought? But...But I..."

"Yeah. I'm pretty disappointing, huh?" Whirl snorted. "Just give up having expectations in life. That's what I learned."

The mech sat down on the spike-shaped foam pad and covered his face. "But I already have an owner. Unless...I was brought back."

Whirl snorted. "What's wrong? You malfunction or something? Make your last owner angry at you or somethin'?" he asked before taking another long sip. "What a sob story."

The tiny mech rang his servos and made a loud whimper. "N-no! We never get taken back. Ever! We're....we're supposed to be made to have no faults!"

Whirl chuckled harshly and pushed the box and the little mech down beside him on his metal lounge. "So, you're supposed to be perfect things or something. Poor you."

"We never get taken back," the tiny mech repeated and curled up, wrapping his arms around his knees.

A loud snort came from Whirl again. "Never is just a stupid word people use to justify why they don't deserve bad things to happen to them. I was 'never' supposed to be a police officer," Whirl muttered. "I was never supposed to look like this," he explained and glanced down to his pincers.

The silence following was almost...painful. Annoying.

"You had your old owner," Whirl added softly. "I used to be a chronosmith. I had my own store. I was living up my dream. Heh."

He noticed that the tiny mech lifted his helm and turned around to gaze up him.

"You made watches?" he asked, peering up at Whirl with a skittish expression.

"Pffft. You want a sob story?" Whirl barked and laughed. "Some low class thugs tried to hit me up for protection moola. So, told 'em to stick it up their exhaust pipes. Didn't hear from them for a couple weeks. Went back to life as normal. Then, one day, I'm running my store as usual. But wait for it--" Whirl paused to drink again "--my shop exploded. Heh."

"Exploded?" the model repeated after Whirl and gasped. He was leaning on the edge of his box, listening intently.

"What are you, dumb? You know. Boom!" Whirl exclaimed, throwing his arms up in the air. "Destroyed. Demolished. Walls incinerated. Rubble! Usually followed by a huge mushroom cloud."

Even though the mech didn't have a visible face, he looked like he was frowning. But he remained quiet.

"Yep. Miracle I survived, really. But, get this," Whirl added, waving an arm. "I made an honest income as a watch maker. Didn't care about the profit. Just wanted to give people nicely made ones. Turns out that was a big bite in my aft when I was in the hospital. Didn't have enough for a full frame repair! Heh. So, instead of consulting me for options, that wonderful hospital kept in me stasis while giving me an Empurata repair. No choice on my treatment. They decided I was too poor to be rebuilt entirely."

The tiny mech fidgeted, as if wanting to ask something. But he glanced away.

"Nope. Never made a watch since. You know how hard it is to make watches with these abominations?" Whirl questioned and stared down at his claws.

"I can imagine," the mech replied simply.

And then, there was a knock at the door.

Whirl stood up on wobbly legs and stumbled to his doorway. He looked through the optic screen and paused. There were a red-colored mech standing outside, rubbing his servos together unsurely. Mounted on his shoulder was a strange looking scope and he wore some sort of optical patch on his right optic. Whirl watched as he lifted his arm up to knock again.

Whirl opened the door before he could reach it.

"Yeah?" he snapped.

The stranger froze and quickly cleared his throat. "Um. My name's Perceptor. This might be a tad awkward, but by chance are you the recipient of a Bad Predacon model named Brainstorm?"

Brainstorm. Was that the meek thing's name?

"Now, I don't think that's your business," Whirl replied.

The nerd-looking mech frowned and sighed. "Please forgive my intrusion, but I'm asking because I'm his owner's pupil. I study under him."

"Oh. So you know his owner. The owner who gave him up. Ha. Bye. He's mine now," Whirl replied and quickly shut the door in the mech's face.

Whirl heard a rather resigned sigh. There was another knock at the door. An insistent and loud knock. He hummed and glanced down to his claws, priming them slightly as he waited a few more seconds before deciding to open the door again.

"You're still here," Whirl stated after he cracked his door open again. "Weird. 'Cuz a door slammed in your face means bugger off where I come from."

"Please," Perceptor begged and held up his arms. "May I speak?"

"Sure," Whirl said, but lifted up a claw to interrupt. "But will I listen? That's a thought-provoking question."

"I am offering to take him off your hands. Brainstorm knows me," he stated and frowned. "Please."

"Sure." Whirl's tone was blank.

"I...You will?"

Whirl lifted a claw up and clacked it open and closed several times. "Yeah. But I don't have hands. So there's your problem right there."

Perceptor's face twisted into a horrified and ashamed expression. "A-ah. I'm sorry. I didn't mean--!"

"No. You ain't getting him back, pal."

Perceptor sighed. "Can...I at least convince you to let me speak to Brainstorm? Please?"

"Nah." Whirl shook his helm.

The mech glanced down to the floor and frowned. "I...I see." He reached into his subspace and pulled out a data slug. "At the very least...allow Brainstorm to watch this? He needs to see it. It's from...his owner. Quark."

Whirl stared at the data slug and promptly snatched it, grasping it with a pincer. "Maybe." He was so very tempted to break it in half and throw it back at the nerd's face for a laugh or two. Very. Tempted. "Alright. You can leave now. Don't come back either. I don't like visitors. And I can totally have you arrested."

Perceptor opened his mouth and closed it just as quickly. And he repeated the action several times before sighing in resignation. He nodded silently and turned away, walking off as Whirl shut his door behind him.

Whirl glanced down at the data slug and then to his couch where the model and his box had been left.

"I don't wanna watch it," the model said, hiding his face behind his knees again. "He doesn't want me anymore. What does it matter?"

Whirl snorted as he trotted over to his data reader and shoved the data slug inside, quickly activating the video screen. "Yeah. But, why not just heckle this guy? We can just make fun of him. Who cares what he has to say? I'm drunk enough to have fun."

He heard 'Brainstorm' make an objecting noise, but he was quickly cut off by the flicker of his display screen activating. Whirl drunkenly stumbled back towards the seating and fell down on the pad with a heavy thump.

" _Yes, thank you, Wheeljack_ ," a voice echoed through the audio, though the screen was still pitch black. " _I'll let you know when I've finished recording. Thank you again._ "

In the distance, there was a soft hiss of a door sliding shut.

Suddenly, color flashed on the screen and the visuals appeared. Sitting back with his hands intertwined, there was a smiling mech staring at the screen. His blue optics looked dull and he looked worn. His helm was long and dome shaped, and he had a small, almost comically small, bright yellow visor resting on the bridge of his optics.

" _Greetings!_ " the mech on the video exclaimed and lifted his hand to wave. " _My name is Quark. If you are watching this video, it's because you are the new owner of the Bad Predacon M.T.O. model, also known as Brainstorm. First of all, I would like to thank you for receiving him._ "

Whirl only snorted. "He looks like a super nerd. You're probably better off without him anyway."

Brainstorm didn't look any happier after hearing Whirl's insults.

" _Brainstorm_ ," Quark adjusted his visor and spoke in a soft voice. " _I'm sorry. I don't want you to think I returned you on a simple whim. You know I would never do that._ "

"Pffft. Right." Whirl rolled his optic.

" _If you're watching this, my dear, it is because Perceptor was able to bring you my message. This shall be my epitaph. Self-imposed, naturally_ ," Quark explained and laughed softly. A distant and half-hearted laugh. " _For the past few months, I've been running on borrowed time, I'm afraid._ "

Whirl froze. He shifted his stare down to Brainstorm, whose optics had turned into large and frightened circles.

" _My spark has been burning weakly. Ratchet--you remember him, correct? He's such a nice and caring doctor. Well, Ratchet estimated that at the rate my spark is fading, I'll be going in only a few days. Perhaps...hours. You must have woken up feeling so confused and angry at me. I didn't want you to see me dying or find me dead. I've struggled to hide it from you, Brainstorm. I'm sorry. Perceptor isn't even aware of my condition either._ "

For the first time, Quark's smile disappeared from his face and he winced painfully.

" _I've made arrangements with Wheeljack for you to go to a new owner who has been hand picked, one who can take care of you. And one who will need you just as much as you need them. You know Wheeljack. He always makes sure you precious things are given to the best matches. He cares about each creation._ "

Quark paused and lifted a servo to his face, wiping the building fluids in his optics.

" _Whirl..._ "

Whirl blinked and tilted his helm. Quark knew his name.

" _Please, take care of Brainstorm._ " Quark's optics traveled up and down, trying to spot his imaginary gaze. He lifted a servo up to the screen, stroking it fondly. " _And Brainstorm...Don't let my death inhibit you. You're brilliant and intelligent. You helped me with so many of my projects. Keep working._ "

Whirl noticed something was wrong with the mech's appearance. He looked worn out and his optic color had faded to a plain, dull white. He was shaking. Quark paused, panting harshly.

" _B-Brainstorm...I...I lo....vvee...--_ "

Suddenly, Quark's optics rolled back and shut tightly. He collapsed on his chair and quickly fell to the floor, off camera. Moments later, the door that had been heard closing quickly reopened and an unfamiliar mech rushed into the room.

" _Quark! This is Wheeljack, get the medical team up here! NOW!_ "

The screen cut off back to the same black void as before. Empty. Nothingness.

"Well...That happened," Whirl muttered and took a long drink of his highgrade.

Brainstorm said nothing. The tiny mech grabbed the lid of his box and tried to pull back. He covered most of the case and hid inside. Whirl only continued to drink his highgrade.

Neither one spoke again for the rest of the night.

Whirl decided it was going to be a long three weeks off work.

And he still hated parties.


	14. First Aid and the Triple Changer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone gets their wish. More Whirl and Brainstorm. ....Kind of. 8)

First Aid didn't think much of Whirl trotting into the waiting room of Crystal City Hospital. However, what did throw First Aid off was the fact that the officer was clutching a small box, tucked under his arm, and glaring at the other patients who dared to look at him. When Whirl jumped up from his seat and approached the medic's desk, he placed the box down on its surface.

"Hi, Whirl," First Aid quickly greeted the mech and shifted his gaze from the box to the datapad that Whirl quickly snatched up. "You know the drill. Just fill out your info. I'm wondering what's wrong, though? Your empurata therapy isn't for a...deca-cycle?"

"Nahh!" Whirl quickly cut in and leaned forward. "It's...uh...Not really me. Alright? He won't eat. And...he's just kind of moping around."

"He?" First Aid pressed and leaned closer to the box Whirl put on his desk. "You...got a Bad Predacon model?" he asked in a hushed voice, quickly recognizing the intricate glyphs on the box.

Whirl. Owning a Bad Predacon toy. This...couldn't be a good combination.

Without a second thought, First Aid quickly flipped the lid over and gazed inside the box. Inside, the tiny mech was curled up into a ball. He was shaking, optics dim, and barely responsive.

"Whirl! What happened to him?!" First Aid asked quickly and scooped the poor, tiny thing out of the case.

The police officer merely shrugged for a moment and glanced away. "Some nerd brought a d-slug from his old owner...We watched it and it turns out the guy was not only a huge looking nerd--like comically sized glasses--but...uh...He died too. And the message was a will-type of thing."

Quickly, the model curled up into a tighter ball. "Quark...Q-Quark..."

"Whirl, come with me. Right now," First Aid urged as he stood up from his chair and pushed it back. He glanced to his other patients and stated, "Please wait! I'll be right back."

First Aid's bounded through the doors of the waiting room with a brisk gait; Whirl tagged behind like a lanky shadow. He passed by Ambulon and Pharma, who were having their own conversation at the conference table, and made his way to room 2-B--Ratchet's current assigned room. The C.M.O. was helping a patient, a misfortunate minibot that had gotten a Bad Predacon toy...stuck.

He left Whirl standing outside the room as he knocked with one servo—making sure to keep the tiny mech cradled in the other—and entered quickly. Inside was Ratchet kneeling at the end of a berth. A modesty screen was held up, preventing First Aid to see anything waist-down on the red and white minibot.

"Ratchet!" First Aid called to the other medic and approached. "I know I'm interrupting, but it's an emergency."

Ratchet didn't seem too surprised by First Aid's voice as seeing that a medic's duty was to expect the unexpected, but the minibot jerked his head up. Stubby fingers kneaded against the air and he panted pathetically.

"Can it wait, Aid? I think I almost got the tip out of the gestation tank," Ratchet mumbled. His arms were moving carefully, slowly, patiently.

The minibot made a loud whining hitch and whimpered.

"Shush," Ratchet chided. "This, dear Swerve, is why we don't use furniture to help push toys in. I mean, jumping down from a chair? Really?"

"S-Shut up!" the minibot snapped and jolted again. “I didn't jump. I fell. FELL. Huge. Difference!”

"Ratchet!" First Aid stepped closer and held out his servos for Ratchet to see. "This model...He belonged to Quark. Whirl owns him now and...and he's starving himself!"

"Quark..." Ratchet paused and glanced back to First Aid. His optics widened as he spotted the frail mech First Aid cradled. His optics darted back and forth until he stood up. "Swerve, stay put until I get back--"

"WHAT?!" Swerve cried and squirmed again. "You can't just leave me like this, 'Doc! It's cruel--ACK. Skiiiiiiiiiiiids! Stop moving!"

Ratchet merely rolled his optics as he placed his servos under the cleansing lubrication dispenser and stepped out of the room. First Aid took one last glance at the squirming, panting mess of a minibot before following after the medic.

Whirl was standing outside and examining his claw tips with a bored posture.

"Whirl," Ratchet hissed in a warning as he stepped past the officer. "I don't know how you came to have this model, but I'm going to strap you down and force you to watch several hundred videos on how to care for him after I save him."

"Are you implying that you think I stole it?" Whirl pressed his claws to his chest, in a faux offended gesture.

"Don't try me, Whirl," Ratchet snapped and quickly scooped the tiny mech out of First Aid's hands. "The smartest decision you made was actually bringing this poor mech here. You're lucky I have extra energon he can use right now."

"N-no..." the tiny and weak voice of the model spoke up. "Let me die. I wanna die...Let me be with Quark."

Ratchet sighed. "Can't do that. Let's get you fed," he muttered.

First Aid paused and watched as Ratchet led Whirl and his newly acquired model away. He made a soft sound. Ratchet could handle Whirl. Pharma or Ambulon could work with the waiting room to get the patients signed in. He turned on his heels and trudged towards his private office, located at the opposite end of the long hallway; past the patient rooms and just beyond the main doors connecting to the waiting room.

He rubbed at his visor and stumbled towards his chair. It wasn't an easy job. First Fort Max with the recent attack and damage to his array. Quark had just died after the span of months of suffering... And now...Now Tailgate's infliction was spiraling downhill.

All the years First Aid spent training at the medical university in Iacon, all the effort in learning diligently to make a difference. How could he be proud as his position with being a medical assistant if he couldn't even help to save patients? It wasn't fair.

"What? No greeting for me?"

First Aid glanced at his desk. There was a welcomed sight of green and yellow armor. A large grin. Laying propped against his name plaque was Springer, First Aid's own model who looked so buff and strong and handsome. Springer was a special edition of the Bad Predacon line: the Triple Changer series. They had...many functions; false spikes, spike sleeves, vibration rods. All in one amazing package.

The medic crossed his arms on his desk and buried his face against them.

"Aid? What's wrong?" Springer asked in concern. Tiny footsteps moved on his desk.

First Aid felt Springer touching one of his fingers.

"Springer," First Aid began quietly, "you know you aren't supposed to be out..." He turned his helm on its side and gazed at the wall blankly.

"Aww, c'mon. Really, Kid? This again? Your boss is a total hypocrite because I know he has his models out. Crawling through the vents lets me see a bunch of fun things," Springer replied smugly and crossed his arms.

"Springer!" First Aid hissed quietly and dimmed his visor. But after a few moments, his anger died down and he rested his helm again. "Springer...Promise that if I die...and you get a new owner, you won't starve yourself? P-please?"

"Whoa," Springer murmured, mouth hanging open. "Where did that come from, First Aid?"

First Aid shrugged. "Quark, he was a recent patient. And he died. And...he had a model like you...And the model is starving himself now. Please don't do that, Springer," he begged and rambled.

"First Aid," Springer quickly spoke up and stepped closer. He rested a hand against the medic's cheek and grinned handsomely. "You're extremely healthy. Why would you worry about dying right now?"

"I dunno...I'm just so tired," he admitted and sighed again.

"Alright!" Springer piped up and nudged the medic's cheek lightly. "Lean back and get ready for fun. You sound stressed."

"Wha...?" First Aid stared down at the small mech, confused.

"Spike or valve?" Springer asked with a wink and licked his lips in anticipation.

First Aid quickly lifted a hand to his faceplate, stifling a surprised gasp. "S-Springer. I can't do that! I'm at work," he whispered.

Springer smirked, crossed his arms, and leaned back. "Then ask Ratchet for a couple of free hours. What do you think he asked for you to cover the rest of his shift about a month ago? Your boss ain't such a saint."

First Aid fidgeted before he quickly leaned back on his chair and stared at Springer with a shy twinkle of light flashing from his visor. "I...You decide," he offered and quickly sent the commands to his door to lock.

"There's my naughty medic," Springer purred and jumped down from the desk to First Aid's thigh.

First Aid found his frame heating up at the lewd compliment.

In an instant, Springer changed from his root mode into big and wide spike sleeve, flashing a dark green and yellow coloring. First Aid giggled and picked up the sleeve, admiring it with a happy sigh.

"You're always so charming, Springer," First Aid murmured as he affectionately stroked the entrance of the sleeve.

"I'm also very hungry," Springer added.

First Aid could just hear the audible wink in his voice. He giggled again and glanced around with some caution. Feeling a rush of eagerness and a dash of mischievousness, First Aid released the controls for his interfacing equipment; his spike sprang free instantly, much too fast. Without a second thought, he lifted the spike sleeve to his member and carefully aligned it to the entrance.

:: _Always eager for me, aren't 'cha?_ :: Springer teased.

First Aid whimpered in excitement and pushed into the sleeve. It was tight and warm and padded internally, giving First Aid's spike a snug sensation.

"Ahhh....oh. Oh, Springer!" First Aid mewled and stretched out on his chair.

Immediately, the snug sensation around his spike began to build a warm charge. He tightened his grasp on Springer and began to rock into the fake valve. He slapped a hand to his faceplate, trying to keep the many breathy cries quiet.

:: _Yessss, sing for me. I love your voice,_ :: Springer whispered.

First Aid arched up quickly, feeling rushed. No time to savor and enjoy a nice and slow pace. Springer responded by vibrating quickly and sending a sudden charge through his spike. He was so close already to coming undone. Springer began to expand, giving more of a tighter fit for First Aid to thrust into; he could only whimper at the inexplicable sensation.

:: _Come on, Kid. Come and feed me_ ,:: Springer ordered casually and chuckled.

After he heard the dulcet tone, First Aid froze. His body instantly melted as an overload ripped free from his spike. He unloaded into Springer. Springer was quick to react and engulfed his spike. Fluid was vacuumed up as quickly as it flooded from the medic's spike. First Aid shivered, helpless but also loving the strange combination; loving the dual sensations of warmth and the sucking as Springer gathered fluids to engulf on.

It took minutes for First Aid's joints to unlock after he finally finished the much-needed overload. The burning charge of his frame eventually died into a simmer. Slowly, Springer carefully released the grip on his spike, allowing First Aid to pull free from the sheath, and he transformed in his owner's servos. Springer leaned back into his palm and licked his lips again, eyeing First Aid with a growing grin.

"Tsk, tsk. First Aid," Springer began and crossed his arms. "Ya gotta relax more. That was the fastest we've done so far.”

First Aid sank down against his chair, draping his limbs out in exhaustion.

And then, Springer quickly switched into his other alternate toy form: a well endowed, ridged spike. It was beautifully sized; one that would make his valve so tight...and snug...and pushed beyond its limits. But, First Aid didn't care. He reveled in Springer filling up his valve so wonderfully and making him so tight and stretched.

He lifted the spike up, feeling his spark flushed with arousal, and stared down at it with a devoted sense of longing.

But, as he examined it, a loud and sudden ping to the hospital's comm. link frequency made him pause. First Aid cursed and placed Springer on his desk.

"Wait, Springer," he whispered. "I have to take this call."

First Aid quickly cleared his voice, seeking to regain his composure and to sounded more level-headed. :: _Hello? Crystal City Hospital. This is Medical Assistant First Aid._ ::

At first, First Aid only heard static from frequency and tilted his helm.

:: _Hello?_ :: First Aid prompted.

::- _-gate, get up! Hello?!_ ::

First Aid shifted back and forth in his chair as he listened. ::Y _es? This is Crystal City Hospital. How can I help you...?_ ::

:: _My designation is Cyclonus, model Primal Vanguard. You have to come help Tailgate!_ :: the voice on the line snapped. :: _I'm accessing this frequency through his housing's communication systems._ ::

:: _Tail...gate...?_ :: First Aid could feel the energon in his systems cease its pumping. His energon lines clamped down in a panic.

:: _He...he was trying to feed me and the strain...It's made him collapse. He isn't responding to me. Get here immediately! He needs treatment._ ::

First Aid was speechless. He could feel his spark squeezing against itself in panic. He quickly pushed up to a standing position, balancing himself on shaking knees. His chair fell over, causing Springer to jolt in surprise and he shifted back. First Aid glanced away from Springer's confused expression and he dashed out the door.

"Ratchet! RATCHET!"

He would have to apologize later to Springer for abandoning him in his office.


	15. Scrapper and the Praxian Enforcer II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehehe. I wonder how many people rushed to read this only to realize Tailgate isn't in this one? B] I'mevilI'msorry.

There was never a dull moment after Prowl arrived to his home with the Constructicons. He noticed that they instantly began to crush on him, without taking the chance to get to know him. For days after his entrance to their home, he could feel their optics not-so-subtly traveling up and down, leering at every single inch of his frame. During refueling—refueling for his hosts, that is—Prowl was swarmed in conversation. Except for Scavenger who looked too nervous to speak confidently to him.

They were hospitable at the very least; as his owners, they could have easily locked him away and only used him for their needs. But...they allowed him freedom and exploration. He appreciated that much. Occasionally though, he felt a ghosting touch against his doorwings as he read through their datapads. He often awoke to awkward shuffling outside his door, but no knocks ever followed, and the presence quickly fled. But, Prowl never complained.

Their schedules were somewhat chaotic, Prowl learned quickly. After their first initial meeting, they were rarely all together in their warehouse. Scrapper took a morning shift of drafting building schematics, Bonecrusher and Mixmaster often had mid-cycle shifts, and Scavenger and Long Haul had the later shifts throughout the day. Hook was the only one with randomly assigned schedules; a medic didn't have a specified shift when it came to keeping his gestalt mates healthy for work.

So, while he was never really alone, it was not quite as hectic when the Constructicons had projects come up. He would always wait, sitting on the padded lounger on the warehouse's first floor and personally greet whoever came home from work. Some, like Long Haul, Bonecrusher, and Mixmaster took it as an invitation to sit down by Prowl and cuddled against him. He was left speechless as they would rest their heads on his shoulder and quickly drift into a brisk recharge.

That was how it went for about a month, until Prowl noticed one day that all of the Constructicons finally had a day off together. And they called for him to come to the first floor.

He did so without a second thought.

They were all staring up at him as he descended down the stairway. His doorwings were arched prim and proper, his body was fluid as he took each step.

"Yes?" he spoke up after reaching the final step and slowly approached the green and purple clad group. "You called for me?"

He didn't miss how their optics and visors instantly lit up in excitement.

"We decided on something," Scrapper announced as he stood up, rubbing his servos together. "We're all finally sharing an off day and we think it's time you met Devastator."

Prowl nodded in understanding. "Naturally," he agreed and clasped his servos together. "How will this happen?"

Scrapper stared at Prowl for a moment. He took a few steps closer and approached the model mech, eyeing him. "You aren't intimidated by this? He's pretty big."

Prowl smiled and shrugged. "Your lot hasn't given me a reason to worry about my safety."

The Constructicon leader stroked his chin momentarily. "Devastator isn't just a combination of us. He's his own being and he has his own thoughts."

"But he'll love your hot aft anyway!" Mixmaster quickly cheered and grinned.

"Shut up," Hook chided and slapped Mixmaster's head.

Scrapper turned towards the others and nodded, shaking his helm at Mixmaster's lewd grin. "Alright. Join up. Form Devastator!"

In an instant, the group rose from sitting and Mixmaster joined Scrapper. The pair quickly converted into large legs. Long Haul rose into the air, as if lifted by a strong magnetic pull, and formed the waist down of a giant abdomen and quickly connected to the pair of legs awaiting the other members. Scavenger and Boncrusher followed suit, converting into a matching set of arms and were followed by Hook; who was the final piece as the top half of the combiner's chestplate. A large, blocky head billowed out of the chest and its visor flashed bright crimson.

Prowl watched and waited, though some of his earlier bravado drained. The visor turned to his direction and honed in on him. But, the large combiner did not immediately react and simply...watched Prowl. Prowl took it as an invitation and carefully approached him.

Devastator was very large and bulky and tall; head coming up to the ceiling and being only a few feet away from reaching it.

Suddenly, Devastator shifted on his large pedes and faced Prowl entirely. His expression twisted—looking unsure of what to make of him.

"Hello," Prowl greeted calmly, straining his neck joints to stare up at the large Cybertronian. "Do you...Are you familiar with me?"

Slowly, the titan opened his mouth and spoke, voice booming. " **Devastator, aware.** "

Prowl nodded and moved closer. "Then, you know what you'll request of me then?"

Devastator did not reply at first and instead moved down, kneeling. He leaned closer and extended a hand out; one as large as a wide berth. He waited and watched as Prowl carefully climbed up, hoisting himself up onto Devastator's fingers. At the very least, Devastator was patient enough to let Prowl adjust to a steady position before moving.

" **Prowl: Beautiful.** " Devastator brought Prowl closer to optic level. A single finger hesitantly reached down, curiously nudging his doorwings. He was examining Prowl, admiring his frame.

Prowl blinked in surprise before he smiled and glanced away. "Ah. Thank you. But, I'm wanting to talk more about you. What would you like me to do?"

Devastator look confused by his question and suddenly sat down, jostling Prowl a bit. " **Uncertain. Devastator...lonely.** " His red optics dulled and he glanced to the closest warehouse window, gazing at it.

"Your gestalt seems to be busy much of the time," Prowl stated.

" **No. Not combining. Why combine?** " Devastator struggled to explain and frowned. " **Nothing to build; destroy. Devastator useless.** "

Prowl glanced to the combiner's free servo, noting how it flexed nervously. "But you aren't useless. Your team is showing their appreciation for you. That is why I'm here."

Devastator made a soft sound, unconvinced.

"It's true," Prowl continued and frowned. "I think it will be beneficial if you relax. When is the last time you've had special...ah...self care done?"

The combiner stared at Prowl like he asked for the answer to a complicated equation.

"Servicing, I mean," Prowl clarified.

" **Devastator...hasn't.** "

Prowl paused, considering the situation carefully. A part of him could only wonder: if Devastator was untouched, did that also reflect on the status of his gestalt? Were they just as naive? It could explain the reasoning behind some of their juvenile and timid actions—especially taking Scavenger into account.

"Then, do you wish for me to help you relax?" Prowl suggested and nodded down to between Devastator's thighs.

Devastator followed Prowl's gaze and he produced an extremely shy noise. Eventually though, he made a swift nod and lowered Prowl down to the ground.

"We'll take this very slow, Devastator," Prowl said reassuringly and patted the grey thighs. "I don't want to force you to do anything that would make you uncomfortable."

" **Devastator...could stop you if uncomfortable. Not scared,** " the combiner quickly stated.

"Don't worry. I promise I won't rush this and I'll stop if needed," Prowl added.

Devastator leaned forward again and brushed his fingers against the model's head, almost in an affectionate gesture. " **Devastator: Trusts.** "

Prowl watched as the giant leaned back, propping himself up on his arms. Thighs spread apart and the green valve cover in front of Prowl slowly slid open. To his surprise, Prowl was greeted with an almost obnoxiously bright green valve lips and dark purple biolights. Devastator groaned loud, so loud that the floor rumbled, when Prowl moved closer and brushed his hands against the puffed valve lips.

He hoped he heard Scrapper correctly when he mentioned something about soundproof walls.

Prowl leaned forward and coaxed one arm between the valve's entrance, testing its firmness. He heard a strained gasp overheard—Prowl almost smiled how surprisingly sensitive the combiner was.

"Easy," he murmured as he continued to push in.

Devastator quickly reacted by locking up, legs shaking.

" **Prowl...Feeling nervous,** " Devastator whispered softly.

It made him smile sympathetically. "Well, we don't have to do anything if you aren't feeling comfortable."

Devastator shook his helm. " **Devastator is willing. Will try; give Prowl purpose.** "

"Alright, but this is for you Devastator. Just you," Prowl replied, smile slight waning. "Even if it's what your gestalt thinks you need. It's your decision. You're your own being, correct?"

This made Devastator pause. " **Prowl: Understands?** "

The Praxian Enforcer folded his arms and nodded. "All too well," he murmured, glancing down to his feet. "The factory manufacturers where we're built...I was never once really asked how I felt about what I was 'created'--" Prowl emphasized with air quotes "--to do. None of us were. I think...everyone just assumes we're happy with it. But we are cared for and treated well enough I suppose."

Devastator frowned as his words sank in. " **Gestalt: Unaware. Devastator like Prowl; not force Prowl to be unhappy.** "

Prowl blinked and gazed up at the large combiner after Devastator nudged him back. The giant's valve cover snapped back in place. He fumbled with words for a few seconds, servos twisting together. "But, I am happy, Devastator. I want to help you relax."

Devastator stood up, very fast for a mech his size. His optics dimmed. " **Devastator will not. Can't. Prowl is not a toy.** "

Without warning, the combiner split apart. Prowl watched helplessly as the six gestalt members fall to ground, all yelping and screaming in surprise as they collided with the floor—and each other in the process. Metal clanged against metal. The group collectively groaned as they sat up. Their optics all traveled to meet his own and Prowl froze under their gazes.

"What...the slag?" Bonecrusher was the first the speak up from the pile. "Devastator broke us up!"

"Brilliant observation, Bonehead!" Long Haul snapped and shoved his way out of the purple and green mass.

"Shaddup!"

"Will you heavy buffoons get off?!" Hook demanded and pushed his way to freedom.

"Is it true?" Scrapper asked as he got up and quickly approached Prowl. "We thought...we thought you were willing this whole time. You didn't have a choice?"

Prowl stepped back as his doorwings wilted. "That isn't what I meant! No...we aren't sold without consideration. We have a choice if we want to be sold or not. It just...came out wrong."

"Devastator thinks you're a slave now," Scavenger mumbled.

Scrapper ran a hand down his face. "Yeah, that'd be our fault."

"What? How is it our fault?" Mixmaster asked, sounding offended.

"For one," Scrapper began with an annoyed tone, "you constantly say the worst and offensive things that you _think_ are compliments. And...we all overlooked that Prowl has a spark."

None of them replied and sat in their guilty circle quietly, avoiding glances to Prowl.

Prowl felt his own pang of guilt and followed after Scrapper. He pushed the gestalt leader's chest, knocking him down on top of the others and quickly straddled the mech's lap. He giggled lightly as he heard several shocked gasps and saw them all swallow nervously. "Apology accepted, but I can see that Devastator isn't the only one who needs me."

"But...how can we...?" Long Haul asked, gesturing to Prowl's lower regions with a frown.

Prowl merely rolled his optics. "You don't need equipment to interface."

"We talk big...but we aren't very...ummm k-knowledgeable with this," Scavenger spoke up and winced when Prowl glanced to him.

This drew a chuckle from the model and he grinded down against Scrapper's lap. "You could have fooled me. It's all a matter of experience and willingness to learn," the mech explained. "I have a spark. You can utilize tactile overloads. And don't forget our e.m. fields."

Scrapper was growing hotter under Prowl's precise touch and he lifted his servos up, clinging to Prowl's frame with uncertainty. The others watched, mouths gaping and frames heating just as quickly as their leader's, as Prowl guided Scrapper's servos—placing one against his waist and the other onto his shoulder to touch his doorwings. Prowl paused and glanced to Scavenger and grabbed the timid one's arm, gently pulling him to slide between himself and Scrapper.

"What about us?" Mixmaster whined.

Prowl paused and threw a stare over his shoulders to the others, eyeing their numbers. "There are four of you. Just pair up. And learn each other's frames."

The four muttered softly and soon enough, they split up into their own separate pairs: Mixmaster and Long Haul, Hook and Boncrusher.

Poor Scavenger looked like he was going to have a spark attack after being brought into the center of attention. Prowl made a soft coo as he stroked Scavenger's back and Scrapper took a hold of his gestalt mate's knuckles, caressing them with his thumbs.

Minutes passed of observing the Constructicons feeling each other up. And though they moved clumsy and hesitantly, it was a commendable first try.

Prowl glanced overheard was he saw a strange black and white blur overhead in the warehouse window and he stared, canting his helm to one side. He shook his head, casting it off as a momentary optic glitch or something of that nature and pressed against Scavenger, nuzzling his face against the crook of the mech's neck.

Despite the loneliness in Prowl's spark, he had a feeling that things would slowly unravel to a more normal pace—at least as normal as it could be in his position.


	16. Tailgate and the Primal Vanguard II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUN

Cyclonus had not moved from Tailgate's side after he had been rushed into the emergency room. Arms folded, rigid as a statue, the purple mech gazed silently down at Tailgate—who was ushered into stasis by the doctors to rest. Tailgate had been given privacy; with the staff only entering to check the minibots fuel lines, making sure that they were still properly attached.

Mere hours ago, Cyclonus had been with Tailgate in his apartment. Tailgate had been feeling brave and wanted to give his alternate mode a try. He coaxed himself back on his seat, legs spread and shakily griping the base of Cyclonus' spike form, venting harshly.

" _I can do it!"_ Tailgate cried when Cyclonus suggested to go slowly; that he didn't need to push himself if he wasn't feeling well.

For minutes, Tailgate sat back, shaking and twitching as he barely pushed the tip of the spike head inside his valve. Cyclonus noticed how quickly Tailgate began to pant and how viciously he produced pained gasps. Without a warning, Tailgate pulled Cyclonus out and placed him down beside his thigh. Cyclonus took it as a sign to revert back and peered up at Tailgate, frown growing.

" _My spark is aching...Just a little,_ " Tailgate explained, trying to hide his discomfort.

Cyclonus had narrowed his optics. " _Call the hospital. Right now, Tailgate,_ " he urged, extending a claw towards the minibot's external comm. link system. It was stationed directly beside the apartment door.

Tailgate laughed weakly and waved Cyclonus down. " _I'll be fine. They said to call only with an emergency_."

" _Tailgate,_ " the purple model pressed and crossed his arms, not happy with the response.

The white and blue minibot wilted and made a relenting sigh. " _M-maybe just a little check up call will be alright,_ " he mumbled and pushed himself up. He was able to walk a few feet, wobbling on his tiny legs. Cyclonus was quick to leap down and linger closely, watching the minibot's movement. Tailgate whined as he walked forward, clutching his sides, " _My whole body's aching too now...Weird._ "

Cyclonus flexed his claws anxiously and watched as Tailgate struggled to approach the console. " _Focus, Tailgate._ "

Tailgate wobbled and nearly fell against the communication console after reaching it. He braced himself against it and groaned in pain, clumsily typing on the console's keyboard.

But, before the com. link pinged out, Tailgate made one last whine of pain before collapsing to the ground. Cyclonus was quick to react and rushed to his side, trying to nudge his face. " _Tailgate?! Tailgate!_ "

Tailgate's system was still faintly hitching, and producing strained whirs, but he was unresponsive. Cyclonus gently prodded his faceplate and frowned, spark clamping as he saw how Tailgate's visor light dimming. Without a moment to spare, Cyclonus ran at the console with grace and leaped up, propelling himself up at an angle with boosting kicks to the base of the machine. In a matter of seconds, Cyclonus was clinging to the edge of the machine and pulled himself up.

He stared down at Tailgate shortly before turning his attention back to the console. Tailgate had managed to type in the coordinates and it was already ringing.

" _Tailgate! Get up!_ " Cyclonus called over his shoulder and glanced at the minibot once more. " _Hello?!_ "

::Yes?:: A voice broke through the static, to Cyclonus' relief. ::This is Crystal City Hospital. How can I help you...?::

Cyclonus growled impatiently. "M _y designation is Cyclonus, model Primal Vanguard. You have to come help Tailgate!_ " he explained urgently. He turned back again to face Tailgate. "I _'m accessing this frequency through his housing's communication systems._ "

::Tail...gate...?:: the voice replied, sounding stumped by Cyclonus' words.

Cyclonus squeezed his servos so tightly into fists that light drops of energon dripped down his palms. " _He...he was trying to feed me and the strain...It's made him collapse. He isn't responding to me. Get here immediately! He needs treatment._ "

The guilt was overwhelming. Tailgate was only trying to show appreciation for Cyclonus. And now he was laying on the floor in misery, perhaps even dyi—No. No! Cyclonus shook his head to banish the thought and leaped down. He approached Tailgate's helm and crouched beside him, sitting on his legs, and waited.

In the span of an hour, the medics had arrived, and carefully moved him; Cyclonus perched on the minibots chestplate.

And he still stayed close to Tailgate for what seemed like hours. Hours of the minibot resting on a medical berth with an energon i.v. system hooked up. Hours of soft whimpers hissing from Tailgate's vocalizer. Hours of Cyclonus' self-appointed vigil to keep watch.

Eventually, Tailgate moved. His visor brightened up late in the cycle and he attempted to sit up.

"C-Cyclonus?" Tailgate asked, voice still sounding so weak. "I'm not at home..."

Cyclonus nodded briskly and remained still, gazing at the mech's prone form. "Your condition made you collapse, Tailgate. You...have been hiding how serious it's gotten." He wasn't accusing Tailgate. He was only concerned.

Tailgate lifted his helm up. "The doctors...They've tried to make it seem not so bad. But I know. I've always known. Before I came home and brought you there...I heard First Aid and Ratchet arguing right outside my door. Heh..." Tailgate's visor flared brightly. "First Aid was begging Ratchet not to give me permission to leave. He said my spark couldn't handle being so far from treatment."

"And yet...you still chose to return home?" Cyclonus questioned, arms dropping to his side.

"What was I supposed to do?!" Tailgate snapped, his voice squeaking in a high pitch. "I'm dying. It's not fair! Shouldn't I be allowed to die where I want to?"

Cyclonus watched, stunned at the sudden outburst, as the Tailgate lifted his servos to his visor; flashes of white bled out between fingers.

"It's not fair," Tailgate repeated softly, bitterly. "I've been stuck here for years. My whole life I guess. No one ever came to visit me. Not one single stupid message hoping I got better. I'm just forgettable...And...and no one even cares about me!"

"Tailgate, you're wrong," Cyclonus replied quickly. "Your doctors care about you. They want you to be comfortable and healthy."

Tailgate turned onto his side, back facing Cyclonus, and whimpered. He sniffled, muffling the soft sobs he produced.

"Tailgate...I..." Cyclonus made a frustrated sigh. "I do care about...There are many who care about you. It just is a trying time to see that."

"It doesn't matter," Tailgate hissed. "It won't save me! I'll still die."

Cyclonus could feel his mouth gaping and his frame wilted.

"Wait...wait, Cyclonus," Tailgate whispered and turned back to face the model. "I didn't mean to snap. I'm s-sorry. I'm just scared..."

Cyclonus nodded. "It's understandable."

"Will you sing? I love your voice...And...and it might be the last time I hear it," Tailgate murmured.

"Don't say that. Just focus on healing," Cyclonus said and folded his arms together once more.

He inhaled deeply. The first few words of the Primal Vernacular ode came out with a shaking tone. It was a ballad used for mourning, one that begged for life to never change. His spark was a swirling mass of agony and guilt. He was helpless to cure Tailgate. Tailgate was...dying. It was beyond his function to help Tailgate.

His spark felt as heavy and low as the miserable notes in his song. His optics never broke away from Tailgate as he sang and he watched as the minibot made a relaxed sigh. He didn't seem to be in as much pain now.

Cyclonus finished his song with a single, quiet note that dragged on; he almost felt too afraid to finish the song. It was the only way he could soothe Tailgate—as useless as it was.

He turned away after observing Tailgate's resting frame and frowned. He kneeled down, staring at the shiny surface at his feet. He lifted a claw to his faceplate and glowered, scowling at his reflection. He eyed the tips of his claws before pushing his arm out and extending fingers apart. In a flash, he clawed his face, dragging the tips into plating. Cyclonus snarled, leaving deep gnashes. He leaned closer and stared at his self-inflicted wounds; his spaulders were quivering.

Cyclonus jerked his head when he heard movement at the far side of the room. He stood up after seeing a quick flash of red and white dash behind the machinery installed against the wall. Cyclonus pursued the odd colors, anger still boiling, and he dashed forward. Before he knew it, he was pinning a red and white, brightly decorated frame to the wall, claws digging around a slender neck.

"A-ack! Wait. I mean no harm!" the mech squawked.

Cyclonus snarled. "Leave."

It was another Bad Predacon model, somewhat shorter than Cyclonus. But, he was covered with crystalline armor in several places and looked in pristine condition.

"Wait. Ratchet won't be happy if you hurt me. He just bought me recently," the other model said calmly, even as Cyclonus tightened his grip around his neck.

"Why are you spying?" Cyclonus grated out and shoved the strange model away.

"I had no intention of intruding. I simply have strong urges of wanderlust," the model replied and glanced around. "I was kept on display for as long as I can remember and now I finally have freedom to move around. It's pretty nice."

Cyclonus glared. "Go away."

"I'm Wing," the model said cheerfully, ignoring the murderous stare. "Is that your owner?" he asked, nodding to Tailgate's berth.

"I'll give you one more chance to leave, before I send you out in pieces," Cyclonus threatened. His plating flared out in an aggressive display and he quickly turned his back to the so-called 'Wing'.

"Ahh...I...I see," Wing replied, voice sounding deflated.

Seconds passed. Wing seemed to hesitate, but he turned. Footsteps moved away and soon, Cyclonus found himself alone in the room with Tailgate. Cyclonus quickly rushed back to Tailgate's berth when he heard a quiet, pained moan and jumped to its edge in one swift bound.

 

* * *

 

Wing frowned as he took one last gaze through the patient's room. That...hadn't gone well. The sadness didn't stay for long though. He heard Drift calling for him in the distance, and with a giggle, he slipped into another room. Drift wasn't happy with his exploration of the hospital and often tried to corral him back to Ratchet's office, but Wing was gifted with evading the Deadlock. He had too much freedom to catch up with before Drift could force him to stay put.

Drift's voice eventually drifted passed and Wing knew it was safe to come out from his hiding place. The flash of red footsteps passing by caused Wing to pause and he watched, clinging to the open doorway and peeking out curiously after he spotted Ratchet pacing down the hall to First Aid's office. Ratchet looked distracted; on the brink of panicking.

Ratchet—Wing had decided—was a very nice owner and very caring. So, it left him feeling bothered to see the medic appear so distraught.

Wing quickly dashed after the medic, using a speed that could come off as impossible for one his size. But, that was just one of his many secrets; Deadlock—no—Drift was not even aware of how quick Wing could be when he desired.

He followed directly behind Ratchet as the medic rushed through First Aid's office and darted behind the closest hiding space on the floor, watching and waiting.

"What is it, First Aid?" Wing heard Ratchet ask as he stepped inside.

The door snapped shut behind him.

"I...I've been thinking about Tailgate," First Aid fumbled, wringing his hands as he leaned across his desk. "I might have an idea how we can help. It's not a cure...But it might just help until we can save him, Ratchet! Maybe even discover a cure!”

Ratchet frowned and shaked his helm. "Aid...Kid. You know there isn't a cure. It's not... It ain't treatable."

"No, just listen! Please!" First Aid quickly reached into his desk and pulled a datapad out. "Springer...Come out. I know you're spying on me again."

"Wait," Ratchet muttered and eyed the sudden appearance of green and yellow on the assistant medic's desk. He tapped his fingers on the desk and narrowed his optics. "First Aid! I told you that having your model out during your shift--"

"Hey, hey," the model spoke up with a smooth tone and grinned smugly. "Don't be a hypocrite, Doctor. Or...am I mistaken about your little Drift and Wing?"

Ratchet froze.

Wing hid a smile behind his hand.

Ratchet then slapped a palm against faceplate and sank into the chair on the opposite side of First Aid's desk. "Just...tell me what this is about, Kid."

First Aid's shoulders drooped as he activated the thin datapad. Wing leaned forward, eyeing it with curiosity, and he watched as the medic handed it over. Ratchet brought the datapad up and leaned back in his chair. He glanced from the datapad to Springer several times.

"What...is that?" Springer asked suspiciously. "First Aid...?"

First Aid flashed a glance down to Springer but didn't respond and looked away guiltily.

"What am I looking at exactly?" Ratchet

"Ratchet," First Aid quietly began and made a nervous sound. "That's...That's Springer. The real Springer."

Wing crept closer and leaned on the tips of his pedes. He got a glimpse of the datapad—catching sight of an identical frame as the Bad Predacon model on First Aid's desk. The only different was that the mech in the picture was attached to some sort of life support.

"Ratchet," First Aid continued and lowered his gaze. "Have you ever heard of the Relinquishment Center?"


	17. Wheeljack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, a few things off the bat: Larrydraws on tumblr designed Input. He was fun to write! Schandbringer designed the Electrofox art. And Dead-set belongs to halibots on tumblr. ;D See here for reference http://halibots.tumblr.com/post/124845789605/bad-predacon-custom-design-the-rough-ride

Wheeljack gazed out the window from his office, located on the top floor of the Bad Predacon's main building. Sitting hunched over his desk, Wheeljack tapped his long desk's surface anxiously and sighed. He leaned his chin against one arm and slowly shifted his gaze back down to the opposite side of it. Just a few mere weeks ago, a final message had been recorded; Quark died there.

It was the first time that a model had to be returned and transferred to a new owner.

He slumped back against his chair and winced when his comm. link speaker beeped loudly. He straightened in his seat and quickly pressed the button of his intercom's speaker. "Yes?"

"Wheeljack, sir," the secretary began on the other end, "You have a visitor. A medic from Crystal City Hospital. Ratchet--AH! W-wait, sir! You can't go up without clearance!"

Wheeljack tilted his helm as he heard the sound of a door slamming in the background.

"...He'll be up in a few minutes, sir," the secretary mumbled in defeat and quickly canceled the call.

Wheeljack made a soft chuckle as the elevator lift rang and slid open on his office's floor. Waiting inside was a very irritated looking Ratchet, arms folded and glaring death. The medic was a very old friend--one who Wheeljack first met during classes in Iacon—and despite their busy, busy schedules, they still often kept in touch. So, unprompted visits were expected and pleasant when they had time to catch up.

"Heyya, Ratchet," Wheeljack greeted as the medic. "How's it going?"

"Cut the small talk," Ratchet snapped, voice oozing with anger. "I want answers, Wheeljack."

Before Wheeljack had the chance to reply, Ratchet strode across the room and dropped a datapad on his desk. Wheeljack leaned back, surprised by the angry demeanor from his friend and kneaded his fingers against the edge of his desk. "What's going on?" he asked as he grabbed the pad and switched it on.

The company director stilled as he gazed down at the pad. There was a documented page referring to one of the Triple Changer models. Directly beside all information and example photographs, there was a foreboding picture of a mech with a similar frame to the model. He was strapped to a berth, unconscious, with wires hooked into his frame.

"What...am I looking at?" Wheeljack asked as he scrolled through page after page, helm shaking back and fourth in confusion.

"Do not play dumb, Wheeljack. I want answers," Ratchet hissed as he leaned forward and slammed his palms on the desk. "I'll bring this to the Prime if I have to," he added darkly, optics narrowing.

Wheeljack balked and glanced up from the datapad. "Wait, wait. You think that we use sparks from mechs to power the models? Ratchet, we harvest the sparks from fields. Harvest. Them," Wheeljack explained and tilted the datapad back down. "You've been to the plants where the sparks are harvested and nurtured. Prime's been there! We don't use this...these awful tactics."

Ratchet remained silent, but he still glowered.

Wheeljack made an impatient sound and continued. "To be frank, it's an insult to me and my company to think I'd do that. My employees are hard workers and we make sure models only go to responsible mechs. And you...you're threatening me like this? Ratchet, we were classmates!"

The medic's expression softened and he frowned. "Wait. Alright. I believe you," he muttered and pinched the bridge between his optics. "But, it has to be someone associated with your company Wheeljack!"

Wheeljack slumped in his chair and turned his attention back to the datapad. "It doesn't make sense. I monitor the labs, Ratch. I know the models created there are from newsparks. This...This has to be some kind of joke."

"What about the Relinquishment Center?" Ratchet asked.

Wheeljack shook his helm quickly, finials lighted dimly. "No, no. That's where mechs are paid for letting their schematics be borrowed. It's how the model frames are designed; they're meshed from different aesthetic elements."

Ratchet was quiet for a short time, but he still looked angry. "Wheeljack...There has to be someone. I thought you were more responsible than this. You need to know every single thing going on in your own company!"

"Ratchet, this is ridiculous. I've done everything I can to keep Bad Predacon safe and keep the models safe. We aren't spark snatchers."

"Then I suggest," Ratchet replied as he turned away, "you look into your company for liars. Someone is acting behind your back, Wheeljack. I'm giving you a couple weeks to sort this out before I go to Prime. Move fast."

Wheeljack watched as Ratchet stalked away, obviously not satisfied by the turn of events. He was stunned...confused. Not only was his company's reputation at stake, but his trust might have been betrayed. Without a moment to spare, Wheeljack shoved his chair away and snatched the datapad off of his desk. He dashed to his office's lift and stepped inside before the doors shut behind him.

He couldn't take his optics off of the datapad, specifically on the page with the bedridden mech pictured.

As the elevator activated and lowered him, Wheeljack felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. Did the mech in the picture have his spark removed against his will? Perhaps though, the situation wasn't as bad as it seemed. Part of him hoped so desperately that this was just a big misunderstanding; it had to be.

The painstaking time of waiting finally ended when the lift reached the 97th floor; Wheeljack skirted down the hall, glancing to each doorway until arriving to the office room 20-15. He stepped closer and pounded against the doorway.

"Input! It's me, Wheeljack!" he called in a hurry. "Are you busy? I need to ask you something."

The door slid open with no resistance. Inside, there was a scattered mess of datapads, glowing with different schematics. Some displayed rough sketches of false spikes, others valves and other sorts of rods and toys. Directly by the door, seated in front of a large monitor was the designer of the Bad Predacon toys: Input.

Input was an interesting, but eager, worker. He did a lot of off world research and implemented the designs into the models, relying on experience to create their appearance and function.

The designer did not glance away as he compiled interesting angles of a two-pronged spike on his screen. "Hiyya, boss," Input greeted with a fanged smile. The spiky and curved mech clicked his claw tips against the screen. "Like this? Basing it off of an encounter with a Gigabeast on Terrabite. Mmm, that was fun. Can I go back soon?" he asked with a wink and lightly licked his fanged denta.

"Yes," Wheeljack mumbled and stepped closer, holding out the datapad. "Do you remember designing this--"

"Wait, wait! You'll love my latest designs. Look at these frisky things." Input surged with excitement as he pulled up finished designs on his screen. A false valve appeared on the screen, with several alternate color palettes directly beside it--a yellow and orange combo, a pink and white, blue and silver, and a yellow and black. On the bottom portion of the screen, there was a based spike, with a large and girthy knot in the shaft. "The spike's designed off of an Electrofox. Wheeljack, you gotta come with me to Terrabite. It's wild there. And the valve...Well. Yours truly. It might seem a little narcissistic, but I just could not pass up a chance like that. Especially with the modifications I had performed recently."

The silver mech winked and giggled against his servo.

"Errm, maybe later, Input. Just focus. Please," Wheeljack pressed urgently and held the datapad out. "Do you remember designing this model? I know you have designed... a lot. If you can remember, please. Please tell me."

"Huh..." Input made several intrigued noises as Wheeljack handed him the datapad. He skimmed through the information before stating in a very certain tone, "I didn't design this one." He paused and glanced at Wheeljack, shifting his optics in a side-eye motion. "Who's your other designer?"

"That's just it. You're the only designer, Input. Are...are you certain you didn't? I mean, you're busy with a lot of models."

Input guffawed. "Boss, please. I might have a lot of work, but I can still remember each of my designs. I remember designing the Primal Vanguard. The Crystal Knight! The Invisibly Thrill! And those are older models too. Sure, I don't know when they get sold or who to, but I never forget my creations. And besides, this doesn't even have my imprint on it."

"Imprint?" Wheeljack asked as he stepped closer.

Input made a dramatic sigh. "I guess I'd have to reveal my secret sooner or later. You see, Boss, I leave a microscopic emblem on the shaft of each false spike and node of every false valve. And, just to be sure that I didn't 'forget'--" he emphasized the word with an air quote "--that I made it, let's check. Just need to pull up the serial number..."

Input leaned closer to his console typed into the keyboard. On his screen, there was a full view of the model from the datapad. He put the picture on an in-depth 360 degree axis, rotating it to show all angles. And he zoomed in. "Alright, from the promotional picture, which as you know is the finalized model being presented to potential customers, I don't see my little mark. Hmmm....This is part of the Triple Changer line? Don't see it on the valve form either. Didn't design this one, Boss."

"Then someone else..." Wheeljack rubbed the chin of his mouth guard.

"This makes me a little mad," Input growled, claws digging against the keyboard. "Someone's trying to pass off their shoddy work as mine? I-I mean, just look at that gaudy yellow and green! It's too bright. I should claw their optics out."

"Easy, Input," Wheeljack said, nudging the designer's shoulder with a comforting pat. "I'll get this straightened out."

Input fidgeted sheepishly. His sudden growls died down as he took relaxed intakes. "Ahh. Sorry, Boss. Still kind of tense from all my Terrabite visits. Ya gotta show those mechas a little dominance and it's a little difficult to shift out of that mindset. But...ahem. Back to work!"

Wheeljack nodded, feeling distracted. "Good job on those designs. Keep up the great work, Input," he murmured as he turned away.

Input shrugged and happily returned back to his in-progress designs.

Wheeljack paced out of Input's office, arms crossed behind his back. He silently walked back through the hallway and approached the elevator. It didn't make sense. The elevator pinged as the doors opened. The automated news broadcasted through the overhead speakers.

" _The Prime announced his decision for the infamous trial that occurred several weeks ago. The prisoner accused will be undergo execution by spark burn out. The survivor, Fortress Maximus, could not be reached for details._ "

Wheeljack barely paid the announcement mind as he activated the lift. The doors hissed shut behind him and quickly descended down again.

" _\--scene of the crime was horrific,' Officer Impactor stated at the press release. 'I'm only glad that the monster was caught. It's thanks to one of my best that he was caught. Officer Sprin--_ "

Wheeljack decided that the next course of action would be to visit the chief of Security and programmed the elevator for the 19th floor. The 19th floor was unique compared to the others—due to the fact that there were no halls. It was entirely one floor dedicated to the Security processing. He was greeted to rows and rows of monitors, with a mech stationed at every five or so.

"Wheeljack, hello," a voice called from the distance.

Wheeljack quickly turned into the adjacent row of consoles and spotted the chief of security. Red Alert was observing the workers as they monitored all areas of the company diligently.

"Red," Wheeljack greeted and nodded. "How are you and Inferno doing? Enjoying Dead-set?" Wheeljack asked casually.

Red Alert made a surprise sound and coughed into a servo. "Yes, sir. He's currently at home with Inferno."

"Good. Glad to hear he's adjusting to having a home."

"Yes," Red Alert chuckled softly. "He literally gets himself stuck on us at times...But, regardless, why the unprompted visit?"

Straight to the point, as usual.

"Well, I was wondering if you could do some background research into this model," Wheeljack explained as he held out the datapad. "I'm just wanting to know where and when it joined the manufactured line. Input was really adamant that he didn't design this one."

Red Alert's optics narrowed quickly and yanked the datapad out of the director's servos. He gestured for Wheeljack to follow and led the mech to the largest console in the room. Wordlessly, Red Alert activated the screen, helm sparking in sudden flashes, and his fingers danced on the keys in a blur. Data scrolled across the screen.

"Strange. This one came from the Relinquishment Center. We have cameras set up there too. And I've watched them, very thoroughly. Donors come in and let their frames be scanned and they walk into a private room to finalize paperwork. But...strangely, a lot of models have been manufactured there in recent years," Red Alert murmured as his servos darted back and forth. "I'm guessing you aren't aware of that, sir?"

"What makes you say that?" Wheeljack asked quietly as he leaned forward. On the screen, footage of the very same mech from the pictures of the datapad was walking inside the building. The green mech walked forward and knocked on the receptionist desk. A lanky silver and orange mech that Wheeljack didn't recognize stepped out from a folding door, clipboard in hand, and greeted the green mech.

"Well, you're asking these questions, Wheeljack, but this information has your seal of approval," Red Alert explained.

"What?!" Wheeljack leaned closer, optics skimming the information. "This isn't the original contract...There's new pieces; bits here and there that have been added. I should know. I reread it about a hundred times! Let's see..."

At the very bottom, printed in font so small that Wheeljack had to magnify his optics, he spotted a particular line: ' _Changes submitted to Wheeljack and revised by Swindle_ '. Wheeljack stilled. And balled his servos into fists.

"Red Alert. This discussion does not leave the room. Understand?"

Red Alert nodded. "I just tapped into the R.C.'s cameras. All of them work, except for two. Swindle's office. And there's a secret room that isn't displayed on the building schematic."

Wheeljack could feel his spark dropping. "I need to have a talk with my business partner."


	18. Fort Max and the Therapist II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooooops. It took me a little while to update, huh?

Fortress Maximus could do this. It couldn't be an easier task: to wait and watch. Watch...and...wait. The room was dark and dimly lit, except for a single light shining through a partition window in the thick steel wall. Through the long window, he could see a chair with restraints on the arm and leg slots. Seated on his left was Optimus Prime himself, to his right was a bunch of nameless senators. Fort Max honestly didn't care to learn their names. He just...wanted this to be over and the execution hadn't even started yet.

He casted his sullen gaze down to his lap when a tiny touch nudged his fingers. Rung was sitting on his thigh and clinging to one of them—it was a silly image to see Rung barely able to embrace the girth of just one finger, but he was trying hard—giving comforting strokes. Fort Max felt his throat clogging up with anxiety and he felt like a heavy statue in his chair. Rung was silent and frowning, but he continued to stroke Fort Max's finger.

"This nightmare will be over soon, Maximus," the Prime rumbled, voice gentle and apologetic. "I am truly sorry we could not stop him in time...but he won't be able to harm another innocent Cybertronian. Ever again."

Fort Max jerked back when a hand touched his shoulder and he shifted in his chair. He sent a swift glare at the Prime before his expression softened. He then made a deep sigh and bowed his helm. "You couldn't have known, sir. I just want to see a monster die today."

Optimus remained quiet and nodded in understanding.

"Max," Rung spoke up, still resting his helm against Max's finger and stroking it, "You don't have to watch this. I don't think you should."

"Normally, we would shield the victim," Prime replied, intertwining his servos as he gazed out at the chair, "But there are so many of those who didn't survive. Fortress Maximus was the single survivor of that...onslaught. Countless Cybertronians are demanding he be given the privilege of seeing this."

Fort Max glared at the chair, internally despising Prime's choice of words. ' _Victim_ '. Was that really how he was seen now? A poor, frightened, helpless, weakling? From the corner of his optics, he could see Rung peering up and looking very concerned. He lifted his free servo up and brushed a fingertip against the tiny model's helm. It dwarfed Rung, but Max wasn't sure what else to do. He never enjoyed physical contact, but the incident had all but destroyed feeling comfortable with it. Ever since escaping that monster's clutches, any foreign touch felt painful and sharp like needles and scalpels.

Except from Rung. Rung was so small that his touches were barely registered by his body.

The model smiled and leaned into the contact, but he did not release Fort Max's finger.

He froze when a door slam came from the other room and watched as a door opened. Ten bailiffs entered the room first, each holding an energon chain in their hands. Fort Max's optics widened. His intakes stiffled to an immediate halt. He watched, feeling glued to his chair, as a hulking form followed behind the bailiffs. Max's arms shook violently; so sudden that Rung got jolted a few inches from sheer strength.

Red optics quickly darted to Fort Max's direction. They brightened intensely with interest.

Maximus felt trapped by the vicious orbs. The shakes spread from his arms to his entire frame. His chair rattled underneath him.

"Well, hello dear Fortress Maximus," the venomous voice that haunted his dreams greeted. It oozed a casual tone one used when greeting an old friend. "How good it is to see you again."

He shuddered, feeling stiff like a statue. He couldn't bring himself to look away.

"Did you miss me?" Puffed lips flashed a evil grin, displaying sharp fangs. "I certainly missed _you_." The grin turned sour and rotten. Despite the several intertwining chains running all across the hulking frame, they looked so brittle and would snap in seconds. At least, it did to Fort Max. "Did you tell the nice officers about all the fun we had?"

Fort Max swallowed and squeezed his optics shut.

Optimus stepped up from his chair and walked forward, arms crossed behind his back. "Overlord. You will never harm another Cybertronian."

"Eager to begin this, Prime? But don't you want to hear every little, subtle detail of what transpired? All the begging and screaming? It was a symphony of pain and death."

"Shut up!" Max snapped before he could control himself. "Shut up, you monster!"

"Do you want to know why I chose you as a subject, Maximus?" Overlord purred as he was guided down into the chair. The bailiffs shoved him down and braced his arms and legs in the restraint slots.

Fort Max couldn't bring himself to look up at him again. Warmth oozing against his hands caught his attention and he gazed at Rung. The tiny model tried to wrap his arms as tightly as he could around Max's finger, nuzzling his face against the backside close to his knuckle. It was strange but heat radiated from Rung's entire frame. It was...relaxing and distracting. A relieved shiver crept up his spinal strut and Fort Max gently cupped him with both servos.

"It's alright," Rung cooed softly, continuing to stroke Max's blunt finger tip.

Max nodded shakily. When he first received Rung, he was indifferent to the tiny mech. He saw his presence as a crutch and a mockery of all that he had endured. But Rung never looked upset or frightened or angry every time Fort Max snapped at him or tried to brush him aside. He could feel his lips quivering as he stroked against Rung's back, surprised at how powerful and strong the wave of heat from Rung was.

"Because of your crimes, you have been sentenced to death by spark burn out." Optimus did not take his optics off of the mech.

He could feel those evil optics piercing him. He ignored him...or tried to.

"Maximus," Overlord called with a dark tone. "Do you know why I chose you? Why you were my next victim?"

Fort Max froze and glanced at the monster, glowering in hatred.

The bailiffs began to strap clamps to Overlord's chest, directly over his chestplate. Overlord stared at him with a twisted smirk.

Fort Max returned a glare of his own.

"Because I was _bored_. Because I merely wanted to. Does that make you feel sad? You weren't special. I chose you on a simple whim." Overlord shifted his helm and cackled. "You thought it was because you happened to be the warden of the jail? No, no, I'm afraid. You're worthless and I will relish the fact that I broke you."

His mind reeled over and over, recalling all the pain and torture. He found himself flashbacking to the first day he awoke in a dark room, strapped down to berth with jagged pieces stabbing into his backside. Servos were traveling down his frame until it reached his thighs. Without warning, Fort Max's legs had been forced open and his array cover had been effortlessly torn away.

" _Let's have fun,_ " the voice had said as a surgical blade teased on the inside of his thigh and stopped just above the entrance of his valve.

It was the first time Fort Max had screamed while trapped with Overlord, but it was not the last.

"--charges will begin in intervals," one of the Senators explained, "to keep his body numbed. The clamps will absorbed the energy that the spark produces to prevent an explosion. And it will burn itself out after receiving a high enough dosage. It is quite a shame he's a Point One Percenter...He could have had such promise."

"Having a special spark does not make one excused from justice," Optimus quickly replied.

The bailiffs stepped to the far corners of the room, leaving Overlord stranded in the center; strapped down to the chair. A surge of energy quickly flicked across the blue armor causing Overlord to jolt. Fort Max watched, optics narrowing.

"Max...?" Rung was trying to look over his servos, but Fort Max wrapped them closer to prevent Rung from seeing.

"Are you certain you want to watch this, Fortress Max?" Optimus asked, staring at him with a concerned expression.

"Yes!" he snapped, leaning forward in his chair. "Yes...I have to. I need to."

Fort Max needed closure.

Another burst of energy traveled across the chair. Overlord arched up in his chair and he started to laugh. Menacingly and deep. And he was staring directly at Fort Max. His face was a twisted gleeful one.

"Administering a higher charge now," a guard from the other room announced.

The energy was brighter and flashier and the laughter cracked higher, almost painfully. But, Fort Max couldn't bring himself to turn away. He watched as the monster's helm shot back at a violent angle and howled in fury. His frame was shaking and jerking sporadically. Fort Max almost felt bad, but the constant reminder of who this was made the feelings die; he decided that death would have been too good for Overlord. But if the mech wasn't executed, there was a good chance he would escape again over and over, taking new victims.

The chestplate popped open, an automatic reflex from the charges. Overlord's spark was off color—even for a Point Percenter's type. It was pounding, so harsh and ragged that it seemed capable of popping out of the spark chamber. Fort Max watched as his fingers dug into the chair's armrests and warping the metal.

Overlord twitched as horrifying gasps seeped out from his mouth. The electricity crackled as it whipped from the chair, decreasing the time between each interval. There was one last powerful spark of energy that traveled throughout him before he screamed. It ended within seconds though and Overlord's helm quickly fell over. His optics were lifeless and dull. He was slouched to one side.

Silence hanged overhead.

Those who had witnessed all sat in their chairs, quiet and unmoving.

"It's finished." Optimus had been the one to speak up.

Fort Max felt...numb.

"You do not need to stay for the rest," the Prime continued on, catching Max's attention. "He'll be taken away and his frame will be smelted down."

Immediately after, their room's door slid open and a thin and lanky silver mech with orange accents stepped inside. Yellow optics briefly considered Fort Max in his seat and then shifted down to Rung. But he didn't stare for long as he approached Optimus. "My name is Trepan, sir. My assistant and I will be taking his...ahhh...the body to be smelted down.

"Good. There is a tunnel under this building that will lead to a private alley and it will make transporting it much simpler," Prime explained. "The building is surrounded by crowds of rioters, though their anger is understandable."

Fort Max glanced down to Rung, who had been very quiet, and gently nudged his helm with a gentle stroke. Strangely...the heavy squeezing against his chest felt...lifted. It was a surreal feeling. Rung grabbed onto his finger again and smiled. He paused though when he realized that the stranger was staring at him and Rung again.

"Yes...?" Max asked when he lifted his helm, meeting the yellow optics with a small scowl.

"Nothing, my apologies," Trepan replied with a cheerful smile. It was a smile that came off as extremely fake. "I was just appreciating how quaint your little toy is. It's an older Bad Predacon model, correct?"

" _He_ is," Max replied quietly, optics narrowing.

"Ah, cute," Trepan murmured, cocking his helm to one side. "I'm actually going to acquire my very own today."

Fort Max frowned again and shifted in his chair. "That's...great." He then stood up from his chair, still watching the now much shorter mech, and instinctively cupped Rung against his chestplate. "I'm leaving now," he stated to Prime and turned to face him.

"I understand," Optimus said with a nod. "I applaud your strength, Fortress Maximus. This couldn't have been easy to witness."

"No," he admitted quietly. "Thank you for letting me see though."

He never felt as happy as he did walking out of the room, holding Rung close. He walked feet down the hallway but he came to a halt and leaned back against the wall. He slid down the the ground and pressed one servo to his face.

"Max?!" Rung cried out in a tiny squeak and managed to climb up on Max's arm and to his shoulder within moments. "What's wrong?" he asked, rubbing his palm against Fort Max's cheek.

A soft chuckle crept through Fort Max and he slowly lowered his arm. "He's gone...It's almost too good to be true, Rung. But he's really gone."

"It's...understandable," Rung whispered. "He did awful things. It's normal to feel relieved."

"Overlord is dead and I'm alive." Fort Max was...smiling. "It must look awful that I'm happy he died."

Rung frowned and sighed softly, but he did not move away and continued to caress the fraction of Max's cheek that could be touched. "You aren't a bad person, Max."

"I-I'm sorry, Rung," Fort Max stated, lifting a finger to the tiny model's face. "I've snapped at you a lot..."

"I just want to help you feel better, Max," Rung replied gently. To his surprise, he reached for Max's fingertip and kissed it.

It made him freeze up, heat radiating from his cheeks and he quickly stood up. "I...uh...We have to get to the hospital. Ratchet's gonna throw a wrench at me if I'm late. Again."

Rung giggled into his servo. "That would not be favorable, would it? Well, I'm ready for you to store in your subspace until after the appointment then."

Fort Max paused and frowned. "I...No. No, Rung. I want you to be out with me this time. Yeah."

Rung looked surprised, but he immediately smiled and nodded.

They left the building, finding a large crowd of protesters swarming all around, as the Prime mentioned. Signs were in their hands, their booing filled the air. A large screen lit up and there was Optimus on the screen. He made the announcement of how the tragedy of all the murders came to an end; finally peace would return. The crowd ate it up and cheered in relief and happiness.

Fort Max stood silently and carefully lifted Rung with two fingers—bringing him back into his palm and cupping him protectively.

After years, this was the first time Fort Max felt strange and different. Was this the feeling of being...alive?

 

* * *

 

Trepan rolled his optics as the obnoxious amount of cheering far above flooded the tunnel. The automated rolling body slab beside him was covered by a discreet tarp. Directly across on the other side, pulling it by its other handle was Lobe.

"The boss pulled several strings to get this arrange," Lobe spoke with a deep cackle.

"Yes, but remember that this is a private prototype. He'll be more of a...pet project," Trepan murmured casually. "My only regret is that the frame will have to be smelted. Such valuable material..."

"We can't keep it?" Lobe asked, leaning over to get a better glimpse of Trepan.

"No, you fool! There are too many rare materials in the metal. It could be tested and match with the frame," Trepan snapped quietly. The mech then smiled and lifted his servo up, tracing up the tarp material. He paused just above the chestplate and smirked, optics lighting up in the dark path. "After all, we only need the spark."


	19. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...couldn't pick who to focus on in this chapter. \o/

_ ::Oh, Hound...You feel so wonderful.::_

Hound dug his fingers around the support beam welded to his shower wall and arched up as the cleaning solvent of his shower soaked his frame. Breath hot and muggy, the mech's helm lolled back and forth as his mouth pulled into a grin. " _You_  feel wonderful."

There was a chuckle before the fullness in his valve stirred. The vibrations began with a slow setting, sending messaging ripples throughout him. Hound purred, feeling his frame relax as the wear and tear of the day oozed out of his body. He cupped his servos together, allowing a build up of the soothing liquid, and splashed the contents against his chest piece.

_::D-don't forget the water, love,::_ Mirage panted as the strong sensations increased. 

"Yes, yeah, I know, dear," Hound replied softly with pants of his own. He writhed a few times before leaning out of the shower and yanking up the large basin waiting on the washroom floor. He held it in one hand, allowing the solvent to fill the bowl, and stroked his spike with his other servo. He then place the tub back outside the shower when it was filled and groaned.

Hound shuddered a harsh breath out and gave a few final caresses to his ridged spike before he came undone. 

Mirage came to a halt as Hound braced himself against the shower for support.

_::Handsome, that was so quick,::_ Mirage noted, voice laced in concern.

"I'm fine, 'Raj. Work's just been a little hard. There was an Oxide Shark that had to be transfered and one of its fins smacked my face. Heh. And then there was an Alloygator that I had to wrestle into its tank."

_::Love...I wish you would tell me when you aren't feeling well,::_ Mirage replied softly. 

Hound winced and carefully pulled the false spike out of his valve. "S'alright, dear. Everything's fine, I promise," he murmured and he turned off the shower and kneeled forward. Carefully, he dipped the false spike into the basin of water and stepped out of the shower. He walked over the basin and grabbed his drying cloth, gently dabbing at the remaining liquid on his frame.

He glanced down to the blue movement in the basin and watched as Mirage popped his helm out of the water. The little model smiled up at Hound and reclined against the basin's rim.

"Thank you," Mirage murmured and closed his optics.

Hound sighed in content and picked the basin up, gracefully balancing it against his chest as he left the washroom. Not a single drop spilled out of the bowl as he entered his room and lowered the basin and Mirage on a nightstand beside his berth.

His frame felt heavy for the first time after he sank onto the flat surface and he rubbed his optics. He shifted his helm and turned to face Mirage, but the smile disappeared from his face when he noticed the twinge of concern in the mech's expression.

"What's wrong?" Hound asked, propping himself up on an elbow.

Mirage paused, nibbling his bottom lip in uncertainty, and hesitated. "Ahh...Just thinking, love. It's nothing though. Don't worry, dear."

"Mirage..."

The little model frowned and sighed. "I...It's...No...I don't want to keep bothering you with all these silly ideas that seem like discontent. We aren't even supposed to let you know we have such annoying problems," Mirage murmured with a soft chuckle and leaned back into the water solvent. 

"Nonsense," Hound replied and reached for Mirage, nudging a finger against his helm affectionately. 

Mirage sighed once more and frowned, his happy facade quickly fading. "I...It sounds silly, but I just wish...I were bigger. Most nights, I yearn to sleep with you and cuddle and..." the mech's voice drifted off as he looked away.

Hound's lips drooped into a deep frown and he silently scooped Mirage out of the basin. His chest heaved as he cradled Mirage against the crook of his palm and stared at the ceiling. He waited a few moments before closing his optics and nodding. "Yeah...I understand that perfectly, Mirage. I'd love to just scoop you up in my arms and lavish you with all the attention you deserve."

 

* * *

 

Rung relaxed in Fort Max's servos as the mech sat patiently in the waiting room. He had been slowly perking up following the short time after the execution. Rung felt some worry that his reactions were only temporary, but Maximus was far less hyper-vigilant at the moment.

Fort Max's chair creaked as he shifted side to side and glanced around the room; Rung leaned into his palm and brushed his finger gently. He lifted his helm up and watched as a small smile crept on his owner's face; a subtle expression, but one previously rarely seen these days. It was a bittersweet feeling. Rung was so happy that Fort Max was beginning to show signs of healing in his own way, but it also meant that the day he wouldn't be needed was inching closer.

"Hi there!" a cheery voice sprang up from the chair on their left.

Rung blinked and peered over Fort Max's frame, gaping in surprise at the sight of a tiny model reclining on the chair's flat surface. He fidgeted and pulled back. Encountering other models were a rare occurrence for Rung, due to Fort Max's secluded behavior, but he was all to well aware of the bias other models had against his purpose—mainly due to the fact that his purpose was to help heal instead of bringing pleasure. It was...odd to others he chanced upon meeting.

"Huh," Max grumbled overhead and hesitantly extended a hand out to the strange model. "Where did you come from?" he asked as he reached forward.

"Somewhere!" the model replied cheerfully and all but bounced into Max's servo. 

"Excuse me, nurse," Fort Max spoke up and glanced over to the sign in desk, where First Aid was sitting. "There's a stray model out here," he explained and held up a hand and the strange little mech in it. 

First Aid glanced up for his paper work and skimmed a look over to Fort Max; visor lighting up in amusement. "That's Wing. He actually belongs to one of the doctors," the mech explained. "And he knows better then to wander around," he added with a stern voice.

The model— Wing— smiled innocently and scooted closer to Rung. Rung's expression grew hesitant and he pulled his hands into his lap. 

"I'll bring him up when I get called," Max replied. "Is that alright?"

"Sure." First Aid hummed in response and focused his attention back on the paperwork. "Ratchet'll be doing your check up anyway."

Fort Max nodded once and leaned back in his chair, closing his optics. 

"What's your name?" Wing asked and smiled. His posture was relaxed and he watched Rung with a very interested expression. "I've never seen a model that looks...quite like you before. Your frame has such interesting joints and angles."

"Rung. I'm...ah...a therapy model."

Before the other mech could reply, the door beside First Aid's desk slid apart and Ratchet stepped forward. The doctor didn't move his eyes off his datapad. "Fort Max? Huh. You're actually here on the right day AND time for once," he stated with a soft snort. "Well, let's head back. You know the drill by now."

Fort Max nodded and carefully cupped his servos together as he stood up. He glanced to First Aid and nodded in farewell as he walked past.

"Actually, uh...Ratchet," Fort Max mumbled. "I...I'm sorry I haven't done the best I can to keep my appointments and came in on the wrong days or time." His chest heaved as he sighed softly. "I'm sure it's a hassle to put up with...I just..."

Ratchet glanced up from his datapad and flashed a sympathetic smile for a few seconds. "Just take each day as it comes, Max. It's just relieving you bother showing up at all." He paused and sighed, shaking his helm. "I've seen many others like you; in a similar position. And...they stopped caring to take care of themselves. Sometimes, the next time I hear about them, it's because they're found dead in an alley. Syk overdose."

"Yeah..." Fort Max winced and turned his gaze away, shame all but wretching his expression.

"But all that matters if that you came, Max. That's all. We  _want_  to see you get better, but there's one thing I've learned working here. Recovery isn't repetitive in its ways."

Fort Max made a long sigh and nodded slowly in agreement. Without a word, he followed behind Ratchet when the doctor resumed walking.

 

* * *

 

Things had been awkward to say the least since the introduction fiasco. The Constructicons couldn't bring themselves to join together outside of work; Devastator was actually fighting their bond and not letting them combine unless absolutely necessary and only if Prowl wasn't around... Strange.

It only frustrated their unit more, knowing that unless there was some way to ease their anxiety, they'd all be stuck in this rut for weeks. Possibly even months. They were all lumped together on their shared loft couches, pouting over the vexing and confusing situation. It had already been a few weeks. Prowl kept himself shut in his room when he wasn't feeding. They couldn't bring themselves to force him to leave his room either.  


"...We need a plan," Scrapped announced after listening to Bonecrusher clobber his helm repeatedly into the wall. It was how he vented his frustration.

Mixmaster had his arms crossed and nudging Hook's legs out of boredom. Hook looked like he was at the boiling point of stabbing the nuisance with a needle. Scavenger was huddling in on himself, looking just miserable. Long Haul was laying on the floor, staring at the sky through the ceiling's glass panels. 

"I hate plans," Bonecrusher snapped.  "Especially building plans. Why can't I put the support beams where I feel like it?" he muttered.

"This is why you aren't in charge of the schematics," Hook replied snidely.

"Whoa! I just saw something up there!" Long Haul cried and sat up, pointing to one of the glass panels. "Something or...someone is on the roof!" he snapped, visor brightening. "I bet it's a government rat sent to spy on us."

"Hey...Wait..." Scavenger looked distracted. The meekest of the gestalt softly shushed the others as he gazed skywards. "L-listen. You can hear movement!"

There was a definite sound of something walking above them.  


Scrapper scowled. It was definitely time for a plan, just...an unexpected one.


	20. Swindle and the Speedster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is all this plot doing here? Shoo. Get out of here. You were supposed to be a simple story sentient sex toys. Geeeze.
> 
> Also, I went ahead and updated the tags a bit! Please let me know what you all think?

Swindle froze mid-step. His optics darted back and forth before his expression twisted into a mixture of a scowl and a frown. He gave a harsh ex-vent and turned on his heels. "I'm leaving for a few hours. Enjoy your solitude," Swindle grumbled. "I know you always do when I'm not here."

Swindle departed his office without a second to spare. He passed through rows of workers who avoided his gaze and stepped into the room adjacent beside the main console area. The room was full of mech's frames strapped to berth slabs, all hooked up to several pieces of machinery while wires ran across their bodies. He walked the far end of the room, gaze locked onto a lone berth.

The frame was a racer's; angles smooth and aerodynamic and a nice blue and white. Swindle placed his servo against the curved chest and traced the seam lines down to his arm. The face was calm, much unlike the lively and angry model living in his office, and still as serene and beautiful as it was years ago.

"Ah...M-mister Swindle, sir!" a employee cried out after stumbling over. "The repairs are going smoothly. Just a few more weeks now!"

"He'll be able to race just as fast as before?" Swindle asked, voice distant and distracted as he gazed down.

"If the repairs set in, yes, definitely! If not..." The employee's hesitance was followed by an audible gulp. "It'll just be a fraction of the difference in his speed. Hardly noticeable!"

"I won't accept him being slower," Swindle snapped and turned on his heels. "Am I understood?"

Swindle spun around and left the cowering employee to return back to his work.

He left the room in silent stalk and entered Trepan's office.

"I hope you are done with your little side project, Trepan," Swindle announced as he glanced around. Trepan was standing over a grayed frame, one with a distinct hole cut into the spark chamber. "Change of plans. We have less than twenty-four hours to make the place presentable. Wheeljack's in one of his moods and I can't put him off," he muttered with a bitter tone.

"Is that so?" Trepan asked with a soft and disappointed tone. "That means I won't be able to make my new toy entirely anatomically accurate..." He sighed dramatically and looked over the dead frame. "So, same as usual then? Move the bodies into the underground holding cells?"

"I expect everyone to begin right away," Swindle ordered.

Trepan nodded and turned a mischievous grin to Swindle's direction. "As you wish."

Swindle walked over, arms folded behind his back and stared down at the lifeless frame. It hadn't been easy to organize, but after paying off several of the senators and the facility operators, Trepan acquired a new test subject. 'To test alternate ways to utilize transplants to vacant models' it was reasoned, but Swindle didn't feel the need to question Trepan. After all, his employees need...incentives from time to time. At the very least, he knew Trepan wasn't stupid enough to risk the company.

"Remember to install the fail safes," Swindle stated as he gazed down at the recently executed mech.

"They were installed weeks prior," Trepan replied and flashed a wicked smile.

Swindle raised an optic brow. "But the execution happened mere days ago."

"What can I say? I plan things efficiently."

Swindle shook his helm and turned away. "Finish up here," he ordered and resumed walking to the office door, slipping out without another word.

Almost an hour passed while he visited every inch of the compound, personally telling all the workers to drop everything they were doing to start moving all the merchandise. They scurried frantically, like an obedient little hive. Swindle was pleased, knowing well that none of them would dare to screw up. Not with so much on the line.

As he waited for progress reports, Swindle idly walked back to his office. He paused just outside his door, rolled his shoulders back and sighed. It often turned tense like this with Blurr these days and made Swindle unsure of coming back into his office time and time again. However, the hesitance did not last for long, and he entered the private room.

The first thing he searched for was that tiny form in the enclosure. He approached, optics darting all over its surface, and perked up after seeing Blurr curled up on the same padding. His optics were closed and he looked much relaxed than he ever did in Swindle's presence. Swindle almost wanted to laugh, but he settled with a smile and silently unlatched the glass door again. Carefully, he reached one hand inside and skilfully scooped up the small mech into the crease of his palm.

Blurr didn't stir. Then again, he never did at this point.

Swindle slowly made his way to his desk and sat down. But the subtle movement jostled Blurr and his optics snapped open. He gasped as he sat up and recoiled from Swindle's finger; sending a fierce glare up at Swindle.

"Relax, Blurr. Or are you going to be predictable as ever?" Swindle asked, lips pulling into a tight smirk.

"You'll never have my trust," Blurr hissed. In an instant he darted away from Swindle's hand in a blue flash.

Swindle sighed and tapped his fingers on his desk impatiently. "Blurr, Blurr, Blurr. You never change."

Before Blurr could put much distance between them, he fell over against his will, writhing and grunting in anger. He crumbled on the floor and shifted. In mere moments, a streamlined false spike had taken his place on the ground. It was blue and white, just like Blurr's paint job.

"And here I was hoping to have a pleasant conversation," Swindle murmured as he stood up and walked after Blurr, taking his leisurely time.

He chuckled when he saw how fervently the spike vibrated in anger and whisked it off the floor.

"Well," he mused and returned Blurr to the miniature living area, "I suppose we can always try again next time, Blurr."

Blurr said nothing, mostly due to his stubborn side, but continued to vibrate loudly and angrily even as Swindle placed him back onto the cushion he was resting on. Swindle left him to stew in his anger as he returned back to his chair and turned it on its pivot. He casted his stare out to his office's window and stared at the skyline of the city.

He remembered Blurr's last race vividly. All the cheers and engines revving. Blurr had smooshed his cheeks before pressing their lips together. A good luck kiss...

Fondly, he stroked his lips a few times and closed his optics.

Just a few more weeks.


	21. Interlude II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold a universe where there was no war. Everything is good and peace is prospering.  
> Oh. And there's a really popular company that sells sentient sex toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo! I had most of this written out...a while ago but totally forgot about it ;D
> 
> I've actually been distracted with starting a new job. ;w; Sorry!!!

When Optimus opened his optics, the last thing he expected was to find his arms cuffed to his berth's frame or his tiny model sitting on his chest plate with a smug expression, but here they were. The Prime glanced from the stasis cuffs to the model several times, considering the situation and hummed with a not-quite-surprised tone.

"...I'm more concerned with how you managed to get my stasis cuffs and use them," Optimus stated truthfully and shifted on his berth.

The model growled and stood up, tapping his tiny pedes impatiently on the Prime's broad chestplate. He glared viciously and expectantly.

"Ahh, wait. You're hungry, aren't you? It has been a several hours since you fed," Optimus mused.

"How clever you must think you are, Prime," the tiny voice snapped. He turned away from Optimus. "First you starve me and then you intend to make me beg for nourishment, as if it's amusing."

"This again? From what I recall, every time I ask if you are ready to feed, you get angry at me. At least you never keep it repetitive or dull though," he replied casually and nodded to the cuffs.

"No! This is not a game," the model hissed. "I shall now claim the spoils of war."

"Is that so?" the Prime murmured and chuckled. "Ah. I wanted to let you know that I've forgiven you for breaking my rare datapad of Thunderclash's autobiography. I'm sure it was...an accident and you didn't intend that result."

"Yes, I did."

The more time that passed, the more Optimus believe it wasn't a matter of what his Bad Predacon model couldn't accomplish, but moreso a matter of _when_ he would try something just as unexpected. At the very least, he didn't trying using a weapon, as he did on the factory's guards, so that had to of meant something hopefully.

"Spread your legs," the model ordered after marching down Optimus's body, stopping just above his waist.

"Since you insist," Prime replied and stretched his body out with a dramatic sigh. "You know, if you were my size, this would be possibly fun."

The model sneered. "The High and Mighty Prime has a type? I bet you enjoy being tied down and spoken down to, hm?"

Optimus chuckled again and rolled his helm. "I might be wet in a few hours at this rate."

This drew a loud snarl from the mode. "Arrogant fool," he hissed as he slid down between the Prime's legs. "Now open your filthy valve to me."

"As you command," Optimus drawled and did just that, watching the pleased expression on the small mech's face appear.

 

* * *

 

The beeping is what lured Tailgate out of recharge. It was a newly installed monitor on his bedside, attached to his chestplate with thin wires to monitor his spark's pulsing. Ever since he was transferred back for another hospital stay, the pain in his body didn't occur as often. But, when it did, it hurt him so much. The pain would attack his vision first, turning everything into colorful blurs.

Cyclonus never strayed more then a few inches away from him; speaking softly when Tailgate needed some distraction or to sing to him when he was restless.

"Cyclonus," Tailgate whispered, beckoning the small model closer with a weak wave. "M-maybe the next time the nurse walks in, they'll have the cure...Heh."

"Perhaps," Cyclonus agreed with a nod.

Before he had the chance to say another word, the room's doorway chimed and opened. Cyclonus straightened up and eyed the newcomer with uncertainty. He didn't recognize the nurse: a flier, with high perked wings, a mostly white paint job with red and blue accents, and a yellow cockpit chest. His optics were sharp and prideful, but something about the doctor made Cyclonus intrigued.

"Hmmm. Tailgate?" the nurse spoke after entering the room, glancing up from his medical chart, and glanced around. "So you're the patient Ratchet's taken a liking to, huh?"

Tailgate slowly lifted his helm and stared. "Who are you?"

"My name's Pharma. I don't normally make rounds on this side of the hospital, so it's no surprise you haven't seen me before," he explained with a shrug. "Although...I was interested in getting the chance to look over your case eventually." His gaze swept over Tailgate's frame as he approached the berth. "Such a shame, a young thing like you..." Pharma tsked.

"I'm actually not that young," Tailgate corrected. "I've just been cooped up...in here...So I guess I just look young, huh?"

Pharma smirked as he leaned over and monitored Tailgate's spark. "Is...that so? Perhaps..." He lifted a servo to his chin and stroked it with a thoughtful expression. "I might have an offer for you, Tailgate."

Cyclonus blinked several times and crossed his arms as he listened.

"What kind of...o-offer?" Tailgate asked quietly.

Pharma's optics darkened for a moment and he glanced to the doorway. "Well, technically I'm not supposed to bring this up at work. But, it could mean you moving around and walking and all that fun stuff without pain."

"B-but, how is that possible?" Tailgate replied, voice shaking in a pained strain.

Pharma grinned as he pulled out a thin data disc and placed it in Tailgate's servo, forcing the minibot to curl his fingers into a fist. "I have a very important and wealthy friend who is privately developing technology that would allow one to...borrow a temporary new frame. He doesn't want it to come out publicly just yet, but he likes taking in cases like yours. Mechs too weak and sick to function properly, the poor and downtrod are even paid for their troubles."

"H-huh?" Tailgate was taken completely by surprise and simply stared.

"But, it's kept very hush-hush. It's an extremely huge honor to be given the opportunity," Pharma explained in a very sing-song voice, smiling quickly. "Not that I would pressure you into a split second decision. No, no. Take your time to think it over," he added.

After a few moments of silence, Pharma took down Tailgate's information and looked over his frame. "Everything looks alright for now."

"Wait!" Tailgate held up his hand and cried out. "What's...what would I have to, if I agree?"

"If you agree," Pharma replied, "everything will be explained afterwards. As I said though, take some time to think about it. No need to rush into this." Without giving Tailgate any time to respond, he slipped out of the room with a grin and waved farewell.

"I could walk again," Tailgate mused as he lowered his gaze from the doorway to data slug. "This could be it, Cyclonus."

"Would it be the right choice?" Cyclonus finally spoke up.

"Yeah! It would." Tailgate shifted on his berth. "You wouldn't understand. You're not the one stuck in bed all the time!" his voice wilted and he dragged a servo down his face.

"Tailgate, your illness is serious. There isn't an easy way out," Cyclonus whispered. "I don't trust him."

"Since when do you feel anything?" Tailgate hissed bitterly. "I...I'm tired now," he added and leaned back. "I need to rest. Like usual..."

And just as each time before, Tailgate heard a soft hymn rise until it filled his room with a pleasant tone.

 

* * *

 

"Hello," Trepan greeted his new toy after he saw the frame's optics open. "You must be so very confused. Right, Overlord?" he questioned as he leaned back into his chair, eyeing his desk with lively interest.

He watched as the tiny model--much larger than most typical designs, but still small in stature compared to a typical Cybertronian--sat up and glanced around. "I'm not dead."

"That execution was so dramatic," Trepan replied and waved his servo in a bored motion. "I suppose, judging from all those murders you committed, I think someone has a bit of an ego, hm? But, never mind all that fun stuff for now. How does your frame feel?"

"What did you do to me?!" he snapped as he examined his new body, causing Trepan to simply giggle at his outcry.

"Let me explain my rules, Overlord," Trepan stated as he lifted up a controller, a small and black hand-held one. "You have no power here, so the sooner you understand that, the happier you'll be."

There was a tiny chuckle that seeped out from the model. He glanced around and strolled over to the name plaque at the end of Trepan's desk and casually sat on it. "Happy? Haven't you heard? I'm only happy when I inflict pain on others. There's nothing more indulging then seeing the panic in their gaze; making them watch every single flick of the wrist."

"I'm sure you'll cope," Trepan replied curtly. "Let me show you the consequences if you fail to behave properly." Before giving the model a chance to reply, he pressed the button and watched as Overlord was forced to transform into his alternate mode.

It was false valve, with a plump lips at the entrance. Trepan smiled as he reached for the false valve and picked it up.

"You don't know how much time I spent studying your entire frame. It's amusing how your...heheh...lips match. But, consider this a fitting punishment. Ever since you've began to murder, you always took. And took. And took more," he explained as he turned the toy in his servos, eyeing it intently. "And now, you have to rely on being given anything. Substance...shelter. You have no say in it now."

"I see," Overlord replied. "Tell me, are all the big bad bots treated like this? Taken in a little domesticated toys? Or am I the lucky one?" Even for his predicament, Overlord sounded smug.

"Since you'll never be free again, I suppose it couldn't hurt to tell you," Trepan replied just as smugly. "You're the first murderer to get this treatment, I admit, but you aren't the first Cybertronian to be transferred into such a little body. Most are criminals who are given the choice between rotting in jail or doing some community service..." his voice trailed off as he broke into another series of laughter. "Some are pathetic weaklings either too sick to work or are in debt. They get paid, if we remember when their contract ends. After all, if a client's happy, what's a few more years?"

Overlord was quiet for a short time, but the silence didn't last long. He purred in amusement. "And they call me a monster. How...cute! Your company keeps your secrets soooo well hidden. I'm only angry I didn't discover this before I was caught and tried."

"Don't be," Trepan replied. "We'd never allow someone of your...background to work here."

"Work? Oh dear _owner_ , surely you aren't that naive. Such blackmail material would have been perfect for negotiating with."

"My. I should be disgusted with you," Trepan murmured as he continued studying the false valve. "But something about you is so...interesting."

Overlord cackled in amusement. "By the way, my little owner, I am getting quite famished. I believe I need nourishment now."

Trepan stared for a moment. "No. Don't mistake my interest for complacency. We do what I want, when I went." He reached for a desk drawer and plopped the model inside. "You'll find my habits are sporadic by choice and I have so much work to do at the moment. Now rest well," he murmured in a cheerful tone and shoved the drawer back closed.


End file.
